Ex tempore
by Tasia
Summary: Historical/Gangster AU. New York, 2000. Riza Hawkeye comes into the possession of a family heirloom upon her grandfather's final words: "Keep him safe." Grief-stricken, Riza is pulled in time to the Prohibition Era, recovering from a gang-related firefight under the care of Dr. Roy Mustang, a member of the Hughes-Mustang crime family and a guardian to two golden-haired boys. Royai.
1. I Promise

Summary: Historical/Gangster AU. New York, 2000. Riza Hawkeye comes into the possession of a family heirloom upon her grandfather's final words: "Keep him safe." Confused and grief-stricken, Riza finds herself pulled in time to Prohibition Era New York, recovering from a gang-related firefight under the care of Doctor Roy Mustang, a reluctant member of the Hughes-Mustang crime family and a self-proclaimed guardian to two boys by the names of Edward and Alphonse.

A/N: I've been talking to a few people about this story for almost a year now, and I finally, _finally_ had a chance to write it! This was originally supposed to take place during WWI, but I've been intrigued by the early gangster era, thanks to Peaky Blinders. A few discussions and consideration later, this is the result.

A big thanks to **flourchildwrites** for beta'ing this first chapter!

Updates will be every 1.5-2 weeks, life permitting. I hope you enjoy!

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**Chapter 1: I Promise**

Ex tempore (_ekˈstempərē_). Latin for "out of the moment."

**New York City, July 16, 2000**

There was nothing extraordinary about the ring. It was slender and silver, and years of wear had chipped and eroded the delicate carving of a garland of leaves into an abraded heirloom. Under the low light of the hospital room, Riza Hawkeye obstinately blinked a set of red, misty eyes. She cleared her vision, distinguishing the neat cursive etched onto the inner band.

"_Ex tempore_," her grandfather interrupted her thoughts, his voice quiet and frail. George Grumman coughed into his cupped palm as he drew in another shallow breath.

"Shh. Don't talk, grandfather," Riza leaned forward, tucking locks of blonde hair back behind her ear.

Like a petulant child, he disobeyed. "It means... 'out of the moment'."

He coughed again and declined her offer of water with a listless wave as she lifted the glass from its tray. She frowned at her grandfather. "I'll do the talking. You just nod or shake your head. Okay?"

He nodded.

George Grumman was her mother's father. When her mother passed away, he had stayed and mourned with her while her reticent father turned to alcohol and then disappeared. No one knew where he went. Maybe this was why Riza was so reluctant about keeping a man past their third date.

Maybe.

Her grandfather was the only family member she had left, and after reading through some complicated legalese and signing many dotted lines, he had taken her in at the age of sixteen. George Grumman was like a little boy trapped in an old man's body. He was scheming and playful. Still, he was revolutionary in his view of the world, wanting to learn the latest technology and advocating for social equality—a cause that most people his age were quick to disregard.

If there was one thing Riza learned growing up in his colorful household, it was her grandfather's fondness for the past. There were many tales told by the fireplace, of the fascinating men and women he had spent most of his childhood with and the slew of illegal activities that seemed to come straight out of a blockbuster movie. With an excited clap and a wistful slant to his smile, George Grumman had leaped at the chance to speak of _the family_.

Gently, Riza dragged her chair closer to his bedside and examined the intricate band between her fingers. "I've never seen you wear this. Did you get it from your father?"

He shook his head and croaked his answer, "It was... his..." He wheezed, "The... family..."

Tears threatened to leak out once more as she listened to his struggle. "Yes, I remember your adventures with the family," she soothed. "You would tell me all about them after you took me in. I was so intrigued by your stories; that's why I became a history professor. Would you like me to recite them?"

He nodded again, and Riza placed the antique jewelry on his bedside table before drifting a somber smile as her grandfather eased himself into the propped up pillow.

"When Bill Lovett of the White Hand Gang was killed by a Sicilian assassin nicknamed the Two-Knife, the Hughes-Mustang syndicate became the largest Irish crime family in 1923," Riza narrated. "But the Italian mafias kept growing in size, and by mid-1924, there were so many gang-related firefights throughout Brooklyn and Manhattan that every one of the family members had to carry a gun. They were advised to be ready to kill. At all times."

Her grandfather sighed, his head lolling to one side. With care, Riza brushed the back of her hand across his damp forehead.

"Maes Hughes ordered around-the-clock protection when his wife became pregnant. He even slipped a Colt underneath her pillow in case he needed to be out and about during the night. But Maes' adopted brother, who was a doctor, refused to carry a gun. He wanted to save people, not kill them, and you lived by his words and followed in his steps. That man, Roy Mustang, was your mentor and the reason you became a doctor."

Riza paused, considering the next piece of information. "You know, grandfather, the name Roy Mustang only came up once in my research of Prohibition Era. There was so little about him. I don't think he was as important a figure as you make him out to be. It was always Maes Hughes, the head of the family, or his wife, Gracia Hughes."

When her grandfather coughed next, it jolted him from his rest. The narrow strip that embraced his brilliant hazel eyes now held a pair of grey to match the short tufts of hair along the sides of his otherwise bald head. "Riza," he whispered. "You have... to promise…."

"Promise what, grandfather?"

"Prom-" The sputum that restrained George's speech jerked him into a choking state. He coughed again, over and over, and spat blood on his blue hospital gown.

Alarmed, Riza sprang from her chair and pressed the nurse's call button on the rail of the bed, snatching the bathroom emergency pull string for added measure. "Hang on," she begged, and she felt tears brimming the corner of her eyes.

"Riza… the ring…"

Riza swiped the ring from the bedside table and looked up to find his vital signs dipping low into a steady flat line. And the monitor beeped, and beeped, and _beeped_. With urgency, she picked up the phone affixed to the wall, her teeth gnawing on trembling lips as she waited for someone to speak on the other side of the cord.

A nurse bolted into the room not long after she hung up. The young woman lifted her grandfather's limp arm, pressing two fingers along his pulse points. However, instead of performing CPR as Riza thought she would, she picked up the same phone she had dialed only seconds before and asked for the doctor.

And Riza knew.

Feebly, her grandfather turned to her and mouthed a silent phrase. Inching closer until her ear touched his lips, Riza heard George Grumman's strained murmur beneath her racing heart: "Keep him safe."

Keep him safe?

His eyes closed then, and a long trail of warm breath escaped his mouth. For the first time tonight, Riza let fear and sorrow overwhelm her, raising a collection of sobs and whimpers into the cold, pale room. She clasped his hand, the chill of death beneath her palm, and whispered in his deaf ear, "I promise."

And as if it was the natural thing to do in grief, she slipped his ring onto her finger, finding not the traces of his warmth but rather the startling sensation of an electric charge. Desperately, she gathered his hand again and willed his life to return, a set of lonely eyes clinging onto the memories of a doting man who had always been by her side.

Everything was white in an instant. The room had been reduced to a blank page. The noise of the hospital had disappeared, the doctor and nurses vanished. And what remained was the restful image of her grandfather, his fingers twined into a prayer, his features serene as if to assure her he had felt no pain. She barely had the chance to say goodbye when color started to seep into her vision again.

Then her grandfather was gone.

The next thing Riza Hawkeye knew, she was no longer at Memorial Sloan Kettering Hospital. She sat with her knees pressed into her chest, her head tucked in between them as though she was a newborn baby brought into the world. Her eyes blinked rapidly under the glare of the sun, and when she twisted her neck to assess her surroundings, it popped with a loud crack. She was only twenty-nine for goodness' sake. Hardly old at all.

A crawler loader concealed her entire body from the din of activities behind her, but it didn't look like any of the crawler loaders she recognized. The size was half of what was typical, and the outer steel was painted forest green like the replica of a World War I Renault tank she had gleaned over a million times during her graduate studies. A red brick building similar to the abandoned power plant found near the Brooklyn Bridge puffed with steam, the exterior free of soot and grime that historical structures tend to collect.

Where the hell was she?

The waterfront street rang harshly with clamors and gunshots, and the pulse beneath her chest began to jog again as she promptly covered her ears with both hands. Before her, shell casings and construction sawdust tracked a path towards a group of monochromatic men—white shirts tucked beneath a fitted vest, black ties, and pinstripe suits, their profiles shadowed by their newsboy caps. In their grip were submachine guns and pistols, peppering bullets into the large wooden crates and metal containers that rimmed the industrial curb.

It must be a dream.

Riza pinched her cheek, hard. It hurt.

Or she was on a movie set.

But everything seemed real. There were no cameras. There was no lighting and film crew. And if these men had been actors, every one of them deserved an award for playing their roles so well.

A man ran in her direction, with comb-over black hair and a round face that seemed vaguely familiar. His youthful appearance twisted into terror, magnified behind a pair of thick glasses. "Miss!" the man called to her. "You have to leave!"

"What?" she asked, incredulous.

"It's not safe here! You could get shot!" he warned her at the top of his lungs, beckoning her to come with his hand motion.

Peeking around the machinery, Riza spied a man drooping against a pile of sandbags, both hands clutching the red that stained his crisp dress shirt. He looked dead. As the gravity of the situation sank into the forefront of her mind, Riza slowly stood and leaned a perplexed head against the cool metal of the blade. _This can't be happening._ She needed to leave. Now. But where?

A booming voice, sharp and commanding, bellowed from behind the crawler loader, "Get her out of here, Fuery!"

She couldn't see his face, but she was sure he was firing a gun at something. Or someone. The sound was so close.

"Come now, miss!" the man named Fuery shouted again, gesturing once more with his hand.

Amidst the confusion, Riza chose to comply, her breath caught, and her feet heavy like lead beneath her. The distance between her and Fuery was a mere fifty feet, give or take, but the instinct to avoid the crossfire coming from all angles dropped her down to a crouch. She had never been so scared in her entire life. On her hands and knees, Riza crawled towards him. However, when a shot whirled above her head, hissing near her ear, she rose to her feet and started to run.

Before Riza realized, a sharp sting penetrated the area just below her breast and spread across the plane of her sweat-slick back. When she looked down, it had colored the ends of her long tresses a deep burgundy. The pain was a sensation she had never felt before, and it was inconsolable. And no matter how much pressure she applied, her shaky hand didn't know where to stave off the flow of blood.

Blood.

She moaned in agony before slumping to the ground, her eyelids fluttering, her vision a white haze under the punishing sun. The man who had been yelling commands and hiding behind the enormous equipment emerged into the light. There was no gun in his hands other than a large medical bag and a folded flat cap he might have worn before he rushed to her side.

The sky was suddenly dark and then bright again. The pain was still there, but it was not as bad as it had been a minute ago. Then she began to feel cold. Riza felt as if her body had been submerged in a tub full of ice cubes, freezing and uncomfortable but numbing the misery all the same.

When her sight cleared for a few seconds, she found a man with tousled hair hovering over her, the dark strands that fell over his forehead as dark as the shades of his eyes. He was handsome. Yet his expression was an unpleasant view beneath a mask of panic and concern. Riza wanted nothing more than to say that she was fine, that everything would be okay…

"What happened?" another voice came from somewhere in her periphery.

"Maes, I need your help," the man above her replied, calmly and smoothly, belying the horrified countenance she witnessed only a moment ago. "She's been shot."

"_What_ is she wearing?" Maes scoffed.

"Maes!"

In an instant, Riza felt a weight on her shoulders, holding her down to the earth. A quick prick on her arm. A probing of something wet and cool at her side. And then the pain was gone.

In her daze, there were muffled conversations nearby, and then Maes' voice split the last of her consciousness, "Take her away from here, Roy."

Then everything faded to black.

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A/N: Thank you for reading! Reviews always motivate me to continue, and I appreciate them a whole lot :)


	2. The Impossible

A/N: Thank you so much for the favorites/bookmarks, follows/subscriptions, likes and reblogs! I hope you enjoy chapter 2.

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**Chapter 2: The Impossible**

Her grandfather was a passionate reader, and _The Great Gatsby_ was one of his favorites. As a teenager, the elegant curves and polished angles of Tom Buchanan's East Egg mansion perpetually crept their way into her ears—white French windows clothed in voile, crystal chandeliers swinging from wedding cake ceilings, and wine colored rug stretching the expanse of marble sea. So, when Riza dragged an unsteady vision across the richly furnished room, she thought she had died and had woken up in George Grumman's heaven.

Slowly, she blinked away her stupor, but the resolve to prop herself up retreated the moment she felt a sharp bite at her side. She clutched the pain and groaned, burrowing her head back into the pillow. She had been shot, but she was alive. Drifting a weak hand underneath her shirt, she found that her wounds had been dressed, swathed in thick bandages.

The door cracked a sliver. A young boy with side-shorn flaxen hair entered into the dim space, his footfalls a ghost above visibly gleaming floor. His bright golden eyes lit up when they met hers, and his muted steps became brisk and thunderous as he rumbled forward with an enormous smile.

"Good evening, ma'am. You're awake!" he exclaimed, his delicate Irish brogue undulating through the break in his high-pitched sound.

Riza bent her neck slightly to consider the lanky child. Khaki suspenders climbed over his shoulders and dipped back down to the belt of his knee-length trousers, a white short-sleeved shirt bunched underneath his waistband. He couldn't be older than eleven or twelve but his old school fashion reminded her of her grandfather. And her grandfather was eighty-three.

"Where am I?" she slurred, fingering the dull ache at the base of her skull.

His demeanor softened again, as if the intensity of his elation had been the cause of her headache. The boy perched himself on an upholstered chair by her bedside and replied mildly, "You're in Manhattan, ma'am." Without a word, he pointed at the pitcher of water on top of an antique-looking nightstand.

Riza nodded.

Carefully, he guided her into a sitting position, his small but firm hands pulling her up. The boy poured a glass, and when she guzzled the water, he remarked, "You must be thirsty. You slept the entire day yesterday, and the last time you had a drink was when Doc was here. That was earlier this afternoon."

Wiping at her lips, she whispered, "I slept an entire day? What day is today?"

"Saturday, July the eighteenth."

"Saturday?" Riza croaked, startled. "It can't be Saturday. I was at the hospital on Sunday. And Sunday was July the sixteenth. Today is Tuesday."

He shrugged, lifting the empty glass from her hand, "Today is Saturday, yesterday was Friday, and tomorrow is Sunday." Gesturing at the strange wooden box atop the vanity table behind him, he added, "Saturday evening is_ The Eveready Hour_. It's playing now. I was listening to it."

Her brain stumbled at his insistence. _Today is Saturday?_ She had been in New York City on Sunday, that was for certain, and her grandfather had passed away that night. Her sweet and loving old man. Her chest coiled at the memory.

"What's your name?" Riza asked, breathless, her bewildered eyes running to the sleek vintage radio that was the size of a toaster oven once again.

"Alphonse Elric, ma'am."

"My name is Riza. Your house is very nice, Alphonse." Alphonse grinned as she combed the room, marveling at everything that was wrong with the space. There was a rotary dial phone on the nightstand, doused in mint green, and a bygone record player with an intricate flower-shaped horn attached to the lacquered base that looked completely brand new.

"This isn't my house, Miss Riza. This is Mr. Hughes' house. I live with Doc in Queens," he explained. "Doc said it's too far to take you there, and Mr. Breda said there was no way they would send a dumb dora like you to a hospital; you'd spill."

"Dumb... dora?" she faltered.

"I think it means stupid, ma'am..."

Riza knew what it meant, and she was not the least bit offended; she was too dumbfounded to care. Soon, her brows rose in disbelief. "Wait, did you say Hughes? As in _Maes_ Hughes?"

"That's right."

"But Maes Hughes is dead," Riza protested.

"Maes Hughes is not dead. In fact, I just talked to him this morning," a deep voice answered amusedly, calling her to the door where the wiry figure of a man leaned against the colossal, white frame. The sturdy set of his forearms twisted together below rolled up sleeves, his faint Irish lilt soft and forgiving it was near indiscernible to her ears.

It was the man who had saved her.

"You're back!" The boy's excitement lurched at the sight.

The man sauntered over, planting a laudatory grip on Alphonse's shoulder, and proceeded to dabble with the medical bag on the nightstand. "Thank you, Alphonse. You may go."

"My pleasure, Doc!" Swiftly, the boy leapt from his chair and waved an energetic hand at her. "Nice to meet you, Miss Riza."

"Nice to meet you too, Alphonse."

Her fascination followed him to the door, a train of questions swimming from the brief exchange. Maes Hughes was alive? If he was, he would be over one hundred years old.

When Riza looked again the doctor was already by her side, picking the edge of her oversized collarless shirt. With heavy lids and dusky crescent moons below solemn eyes, he seemed too weary to even smile, as if what kept him away had drained the last of his energy. "You should recover within a week or so. There's no infection, and it was a clean shot. I'm going to change your bandage. Hold this up, please."

Riza gathered the sheer fabric below her breasts, only realizing the man must have changed her out of her bloody tank top. "My shirt...?" And then she felt the absence of her undergarment. Her face burned hot, cheeks flaring red in betrayal. "And my bra?"

"Your costumes are being washed," he quickly said, an odd expression finding hers before lowering back to the strip of gauze below her sternum.

"Costumes?" she asked in confusion.

"Your large coat, and your-" he cleared his throat, the bandage loosening around her waist, "tiny knickers."

"You mean my hoodie and-" With haste, one of her hands reached for her jeans and felt smooth, naked legs. And then she rushed to her hips and brushed up against the feel of fine silk. Hers was cotton. "You took off my underwear," she hissed.

At the accusation, he peered up with unease. "Everything was stained with blood. I didn't have a choice."

Riza drew in a breath and sighed, wincing at the sudden brush of cool ointment. "Sorry. I didn't mean to say it like that," she amended in a whisper.

"That's alright," he said, his eyes eluding hers as he continued with his handy work.

Silence consumed the bridge between them as the doctor rolled and unrolled linen, wrapping it snugly around her midriff. Helplessly, Riza trailed after his practiced motions, gentle and adept beneath his warm hands. His expressive gaze stole the spotlight, but his hard-set mouth and jaw clenched tight, capturing her curiosity. It was as though he was forbidding himself from further embarrassment.

"What should I call you, Doctor?" Riza asked when the musings of her predicament became too much. There were too many things that didn't make sense.

"My name is Roy Mustang, but you can call me Roy."

Hearing his name coaxed a trembling in her heart, and the tips of her fingers began to tingle. George Grumman had often mentioned his beloved mentor in such a virtuous light that Riza could not refrain from falling in love with a man who no longer existed. Peculiarly, stories of his gallantry and benevolence solely revolved around her grandfather's youth. There were no surviving photographs of Roy Mustang, nor anything more than the fact he was related to Maes Hughes.

All of this must be a dream.

A bizarre and vivid dream.

"My name is Riza Hawkeye," she offered.

With a resigned sigh, the doctor ceased all movements and swung an expectant gaze at her. There was a diminutive strain of disappointment when he spoke again, as if he knew something she didn't, "Miss Hawkeye, are you one of Frankie Yale's girls?"

Frankie Yale was an Italian gangster who created a monopoly in ice delivery. Based in Brooklyn, he ran a series of brothels and once employed a young bouncer by the name of Al Capone.

Riza gritted her teeth, the many years spent studying New York crime families buoying her confidence, "Why would you ask me that? I'm not a prostitute and Frankie Yale was murdered in 1928."

Roy stared at her like he would a mentally deranged patient, but his hands had started again with the most careful ministrations, completing his craft. "The year is 1925, Miss Hawkeye, and Frankie Yale is very much alive. His goons shot at us at the waterfront and also hit you, which... could possibly be an accident on their part."

Her mind reeled at the implication. Apparently, she had traveled back in time and was now suspected to be a working girl for one the most ruthless crime bosses.

"I… I'm not his girl," she began, uncertain.

"Then why were you there?" he pressed.

A repulsive sourness stirred on her tongue and eddied down her stomach. Her sense of safety was collapsing. For a dream, it all felt too real.

Stammering, Riza pleaded, "Can you- can you take me home?"

"Not until you've fully recovered."

"I need to go home," she repeated, her iron will persisting. "I have to take care of funeral arrangements."

"Funeral arrangements? Surely not for Maes or Frankie," the doctor snorted in ill humor.

"For my grandfather. He-" she paused, the pull at her side tottering her speech. "He passed away on Sunday..."

Immediately, his cold glare and bitter words tripped at the revelation, fluttering into a reluctant frown. "You're serious?"

"Of course I'm serious," she moaned, tossing her blanket lightly. "Please help me up."

He hovered a doubtful watch on her. "I can't let you leave, Riza. Not yet. And if you're not Frankie Yale's girl as you claimed, then Maes would be more than happy to let you recuperate here."

Then she remembered her grandfather's ring. Her eyes widened a great deal when she discovered it was missing from her finger.

As though he could read her, Roy slid a hand into his trousers pocket and pilfered a small item glinting in the shadows. "It fell loose from your finger. I took it off and kept it for you." He placed it on her palm. "Here."

"Thank you," Riza breathed in relief, dawdling an examination of the chipped garland of leaves carved on the band. All she had to do was slip it on and let it do its magic, then she would wake in her own room, on her own bed, and in her own time. Yes.

It was time to leave.

While she was here, she should thank the good doctor for everything he had done. For her and for her grandfather. The man deserved that, at the very least. Giddily, her chin tipped up with a smile, but she caught Roy staring at her. His black gaze occasionally fell to the ring in her hand.

"Wedding ring?" he asked before she could speak.

Positively, Riza shook her head, chuckling as her thoughts inevitably wandered to the ridiculous notion of a phantom man taking an interest in her. "No. It was my grandfather's. Or rather, someone gave it to him. Would you happen to know who this ring belongs to?"

With reverence, Roy took it and balanced the circle between his fingers, holding the details to the lampshade. "No. I don't recognize it."

"Hmm. That's too bad," she murmured with regret, weighing the jewelry on her palm when he returned it to her.

"Wait here," Roy suddenly said, rising to his feet and vacating her side. He strode to the door.

At his loss, Riza blurted, "Where are you going?"

He flashed her a kind smile in reassurance. "I'll be back in a jiffy. Don't go anywhere."

It took Roy less than ten minutes before he returned with a little man at his heels. Skinny and short, the boy seemed a few years younger than Alphonse but possessed the same bearing of an old soul. The outfit he wore mirrored a newsies'—children who sold newspapers—with striped, peter pan collar under a loose vest and high-waisted khakis that hung at his ankles. There was a familiarity about the way he styled his pale yellow waves into a small pompadour at the front, his round spectacles sitting low on his nose. Riza had seen him in an old photograph before, tinted in sepia and creased with age.

Her spine stiffened and froze her in place.

Ushering him to her bedside, Roy clarified, "I have to go back to the clinic. Georgie here will watch over you until I return. He's only eight, but he has been a very keen learner and is trained on cleaning and dressing a wound. If your bandage starts to feel uncomfortable, he can change it for you."

She cranked her neck to Georgie, who readily extended his scrawny arm to proffer a shake. He wasn't shy at all._ Just like the old man, _she gasped quietly. In incredulity, she grasped his impossible hand. The sensation of his skin was solid and real beneath hers, the strength of his ambitious grip sending her rationality swirling without an end.

With a voice three octaves higher than Riza was used to, he introduced himself as a child would, belting out his memorized lines as if in a school play, "Nice to meet ya. My name is George Grumman, and I will help you with anything you need. You can call me Georgie. Everyone does."

All at once her heart soared, and Riza had to rub at her chest to calm it. Her grandfather was here, and he was alive. A little boy instead of an old man, but he was alive! And Riza decided she didn't want to wake up anymore. Georgie tugged an adorable grin when she gave him her name.

Riza smiled, "Do you think it's a good name, Georgie?"

"It's a beautiful name, Miss Riza. Who gave it to you?" his tiny mouth said.

Heat pooled beneath her skull and journeyed to the back of her eyes, blurring her vision with streaks of emotions.

"My grandfather gave it to me."

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On the next chapter: The Adversaries

The tumbler in Roy's hand was effectively swiped. With another rake through a thick bed of hair, Maes Hughes filled the glass with smuggled liquor—the Canadian whisky he pulled an arm and a leg to bring to this side of the coast. With much flourish, he sipped and kissed the tips of his fingers, mimicking their Italian counterpart, "_Perfetto. Il bacio della morte_."

"You know, if I don't hear it from you, I'll eventually hear it from Gracia or Chris."

The mobster's expression turned sober. "I have reasons to believe we have a mole in our midst."


	3. The Adversaries

A/N: Thank you to **waddiwasiwitch** for the lesson in Irish slang! They're so helpful :). I hope you enjoy chapter 3!

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**Chapter 3: The Adversaries**

Roy must have stared out the window for too long as the day soon disappeared and the lights beyond the window began to flicker and scatter gold across the pool-sized fountain. Maes tapped him on the shoulder, offering him his lit cigarette.

"Need a smoke?" he asked, his tone more tepid than usual. More often than not, Maes Hughes was a bolt of energy, ricocheting with endless conversations about everything and anything, meddling with Roy's love life trending at the top of his list. Tonight, the man was a deflated balloon, his laughter half hearted and the usual topic of his glowing wife pushed down the rank.

And he was smoking.

Roy refused it with a languid wave, catching a glimpse of the man's affected smile as he circled around in front of him.

"It'll help," Maes urged.

"I quit when the war ended, remember? I'll have a drink though," Roy said, hauling his concrete feet to the rolling cart that held pre-Prohibition whiskey. Pouring a finger, he sipped the Hermitage sour mash and smacked his lips in content. "And you promised Gracia you would quit smoking."

"She's not here," Maes chuckled. For the hundredth time that evening the mobster swept through his garden of black strands with a restless hand, taking a long drag of smoke with the other. "So? You were saying?"

With a hand in his pocket, the doctor approached his expectant brother. "Well, she said she had no idea how she got there, and she insisted she had never met Frankie." Roy took another sip. "Her odd sense of fashion wouldn't be so odd anymore in a few years' time—or so she said."

"And you believed her?"

"I did, for the most part," Roy confessed. "I don't think she's Frankie's moll. She doesn't act like one, and her face is, frankly, a little too plain for his liking. She also spouts too many nonsense for him to want to keep her around."

"What did she say?"

"Frankie is dead, or will be dead in 1928. And you are dead too, apparently, but I didn't catch the when," he said flatly. Sighing, his thoughts moved from the man to latch onto the island of grass outside. He contemplated her again. "I suppose it could be the painkillers making her batty. And as for her clothes-" Roy tilted a glance up at the taller man, "You're in the fashion business, so you would know the latest demands. Do you think women would ever ask for such small and flimsy garments?"

"Well, it's not so strange for women to want to reveal more. Hollywood made sure of that. But what I've never seen is an undergarment like hers. Of that size," Maes answered.

"Right," Roy agreed.

A playful smirk suddenly danced across Maes' face, prompting the doctor to narrow his eyes in displeasure. Maes laughed, and a whistle soon followed as he trailed the shape of an hourglass with his fingers, "Well, that woman may be strange, but she is certainly one fine doll."

His eyes narrowed further. "You have Gracia, and she's carrying your baby," Roy warned him. "I don't think she'd be happy to know you looked at another woman."

"I wasn't looking. I was merely appreciating. And don't worry, my philandering days are over. I am dedicated to one woman," the man lifted a reassuring smile, puffing the tobacco between his fingers. "I'll let you have her, how about that? Just like the old days, eh? One for you, and one for me."

Roy drained the rest of his whiskey and chose to dismiss the statement. "What were you going to tell me before we started talking about her?"

Maes shot him a mock-scoff and tamped the butt of his cigarette into an ashtray. "So quick to disregard your older brother. How rude."

"I know you've been stressed out all morning," he countered.

"You're a good person, Roy. Always worrying about others."

"It's only about time before I find out anyway. You might as well tell me."

The tumbler in Roy's hand was effectively swiped. With another rake through a thick bed of hair, Maes Hughes filled the glass with smuggled liquor—the Canadian whisky he pulled an arm and a leg to bring to this side of the coast. With much flourish, he sipped and kissed the tips of his fingers, mimicking their Italian counterpart, "_Perfetto. Il bacio della morte._"

"If I don't hear it from you, I'll eventually hear it from Gracia or Chris."

The mobster's expression turned sober. "I have reason to believe we have a mole in our midst."

Solemnly, Roy nodded, "I think we do, too."

"Huh," Maes returned with amusement. "Roy Mustang and his overly analytical mind. You should have become a detective instead of a doctor. You would have been able to put me behind bars, you cute hoor," his brother joked.

"It was supposed to be a simple, unassuming transaction between two dock workers that should have taken less than three minutes to complete."

"Maybe our dock worker cover wasn't as good as we thought," Maes said. This was how they always deliberated, bouncing possible scenarios between one another.

"Three minutes is not a long enough window for anyone to be able to figure out what two dock workers were up to, let alone pull out a submachine gun and start shooting."

"Frankie's men could be lucky."

"That was not luck. They were waiting for you to come out."

"Yes, and I jumped right out, falling perfectly into their trap. Who do you think it is?"

"Any new employees at the office?" Roy asked.

"We hired a new factory manager and a junior accountant six months ago. Denny Brosh and Maria Ross."

"What about the blond one?"

"Jean Havoc has been working for me for over a year, Roy. You just haven't visited the office for longer than that," Maes said, taking another puff, seemingly annoyed at the fact. "You should have seen Chris taking charge of the redecorating. Could've taken my job."

"Humor me. Please," Roy beseeched.

"I had someone look into him, just in case. Jean is clean, as far as Breda could tell. His family runs a general store in Staten Island. His grandparents hailed from Corsica. He's got no ties whatsoever to the Italians."

"You don't have to be Italian for them to recruit you," Roy insisted, crossing his arms at his chest.

"No, but heritage runs thick with them," he argued. The mobster's gaze darkened and fell to the whisky in his hand before rising back up again. "I've got one more thing I'm worried about. And this doesn't look good for all of us."

Roy's heartbeat ceased in anticipation. Before him, Maes gobbled his drink as though it would ease their situation. He slammed the empty glass on the window sill.

"Did you read the latest newspaper headline?" Maes asked, an abrupt hand going to the pistol in his shoulder holster, checking and double checking the loaded chamber of his government issued Colt.

"Are you referring to the Olivier Armstrong article? The Fearless and the Incorruptible Agent?"

Maes sighed, defeat in his voice as he stuffed the weapon back into its sleeve, "That's the one. She busted the Curtis family recently. Even dear ol' Lucky is afraid of her. I suppose money can't buy them all."

"Is she after you? Chris and Gracia, too?"

Maes scoffed, "She's after me, that's for sure. I saw her on my way to the office this morning. That can't be a coincidence. And as long as I'm her target, Gracia isn't safe. Nor is Chris."

A black cloud drifted over him, and Roy hissed, "If you had stayed with the Bureau, you wouldn't have brought them into this mess. But you just had to listen to your father, didn't you?"

"Jaysus, Roy! He wanted you to take over the business, but you refused him," Maes bit back, furious hands grabbing at his brother's lapels. Pulling a deep breath, Maes took a step back and gathered his composure, dusting off his anger. His voice was even and measured when he spoke again, though it was sharp with bitterness, "Someone's gotta do it. And you were too much of a coward."

He narrowed his focus on the caustic man, closing their distance and pointing at him with reproach. It wasn't the insult that aroused him. It was the thought of the two boys under his care. "If Olivier asks about them, you know nothing. _An dtuigeann tú?_"

Maes seemed to have understood his meaning and retorted, "Of course. Besides, the whole incident with the Elrics wasn't your fault. You should have realized that by now, you sulky bastard."

Roy shook his head. "It was my fault."

"You better take that puss off your face. I'm going back to the office," Maes huffed, rolling his own shoulder before leaning into his brother's ear. Roy could hear a trace of a sneer in the man's whisper, "And get her some proper clothing, will you? It's hard to keep my eyes away."

Maes left, and Roy's gaze flew behind him, afraid he would find the strange woman who had been occupying his mind half naked, relieved when he found her cradled by a nook near the staircase adequately clothed in her own sleeveless top and denim pants that miners often wore. Her full strength had not returned as guiding hands tracked the bookcase along the wall, steadying her path from the guest room where she had been staying to where he was now standing watch.

Sprinting to her, the doctor chastised, "You shouldn't be out of bed. Your stitches will tear." Mindfully, he propped her by the waist, slinging her arm around his shoulder and leading her back up the stairs. He wondered if she had listened in to their minor scuffle.

Riza made no comment if she were aware. Instead, she paused in her shuffle, tilting tired brown eyes at him, "I'm filthy. Can I take a bath?"

"No. Absolutely not," he objected.

"Rinse my mouth? Wash my skin with a wet cloth?" she pleaded, desert lips cracking inches away from his ear. He could feel her breath on his cheek, hot and distracting, taunting him to picture bare skin under a washcloth. It was hard to keep his eyes away from her, too. Maes Hughes was usually precise with his assessment of a woman's beauty.

He turned to her slowly and answered, "You can rinse your mouth, but there's no one here right now who can help you cleanse."

"Can I wash my face then?" Riza ventured with a lazy grin, her row of perfect white teeth a rare sight among the stained and decaying he had often seen when visiting patients. Only the rich could afford the best dental treatment.

Without a word, Roy nodded, steering her towards the powder room beneath the flight of steps.

He tightened his hold around her willowy frame and gathered her limp hair as she bent over the sink, hoarding water into her mouth. The wisps of sunflower that had been silky when he first encountered her were matted beneath his hand. Softly, he said, "Riza, if you want to wash your hair, I can help you."

Sluggishly, she met his apprehensive gaze. "Okay."

He only left her for a second, racing to another bathroom down the gleaming corridor for a bottle of shampoo and rushing back to her side. When he entered the powder room again, she was beaming at the item in his hand like a child finding wrapped presents under a Christmas tree.

Riza Hawkeye was different, Roy noticed. She wasn't like the women in the employ of brothel-owner Christine Mustang, all painted face and provocative, nor was she careful with her demeanor like many elegant, high society dames he had met at the extravagant parties Maes had thrown around like spare change. His adopted brother had taken the contentious Volstead Act and turned it into a money-making factory under the guise of a successful textile empire. There was always extra cash lying around.

It was a few nights ago when she mumbled the names of his entire family, coupled with the words "impossible" and "crazy". The woman was exactly like the words she spoke. Impossible and crazy. Yet, Roy helplessly discovered himself awake by her bedside day in and day out, thinking about her more often than he should. Riza Hawkeye was fascinating, and she could not have come at a worse time. Where Roy should be was in his own home with Edward and Alphonse, avoiding the family business like a plague and ensuring the children were caught up in their studies.

"Can you hold my hair up, please? I want to wash my face first," Riza muttered her instruction.

And Roy did, taking her left side and gently coiling her long tresses into a high bun. The strappy shirt she wore suddenly felt too revealing, too much for his roaming eyes. Curls of fine hair teased the back of her slender neck, and the meadow of fair skin above her shoulderblades hooked his stare to dip beneath the top that outlined the appealing shape of her breasts.

"Okay. You can let go of my hair," she whispered, drawing a quiet hiss as the pain at her side prodded her to hunch her back.

Concerned, he slid an arm and gripped her shoulder. "Have you taken your pain medication?"

"Yes. Alphonse came and reminded me."

His face contorted with disapproval. "Alphonse was supposed to let you sleep. If I had known he'd slip into your room, I would have told him to stay home with his brother."

"He just wanted to talk to me," she appeased before looking up. "And will Georgie be visiting us again soon?"

"Yes, but you need your rest first," Roy asserted.

"I am fine. The company is welcomed. And you barely say a word to me every time you're here, choosing to study me in silence like one of your medical books instead."

He stood still with his mouth parted, the surprise slow to leave his expression.

"I've seen you walk in at night, thinking I was asleep. You usually have a book on your lap, but sometimes you'd just stare at me for a long time," she admitted without shame.

"Those weren't medical books. They were a collection of newspaper clippings that Maes had gathered. It's full of names of his ah- business rivals." He looked away briefly to twist the faucet and then hovered a prying watch, concern and curiosity mingling under one breath, "You mentioned a few names when you were asleep. Some I have never heard before, and some I have. Diamond Jim. Scarface. The Fox... How do you know these people?"

"I…" Riza hesitated, taking a second as if to consider her next words carefully, "I don't know these people. At least, not like how you imagined it. But I had time to study them like Maes has."

"So you're a bureau agent then? Hellbent on capturing these people, are you? I can tell you it won't be easy," Roy said, thoroughly amused. When she reached for the glass bottle on the counter, he placed his hand on hers. "Here, let me. Just tilt your head down and hold on to the sides. Don't fall. I'll wash your hair for you."

Lowering her head into the sink, she continued, "I'm not a bureau agent. I've just spent a good portion of my life intrigued by the things they had done."

He didn't say any more and upended the bottle, letting the clear liquid run into his hand. Taking her hair, a handful of strands at a time, he smoothed them over and repeated the motion until the entire area was lathered and soaked, the powder room smelling of coconut. Once in a while Riza would squirm below him, favoring to lean onto one side when the discomfort of her stitches pulled at her right. When it happened again, Roy hurried with his task and swiftly wrapped a clean towel around her head.

"All done," he announced, turning off the faucet.

"Thank you," she muttered, wringing her wet mane and covering it with the towel again until it sat into a bundle at the top of her head.

His gaze sank to her damp shirt. He didn't know if she had caught him staring, but when his demanding eyes locked onto a particularly enticing line between her breasts, the wet stain allowing more view than before, Roy forced them up and suggested, "What do you say we make a visit to Chris' place next Sunday and get you a couple of dresses? Her girls will be able to help you. And you should be better by then."

"Your aunt?" Riza asked innocently.

Shocked, he froze, his searching eyes clinging to hers. There she was again with an information that had not been privy to many. It wasn't commonly known that Chris Mustang was his aunt. Most thought she was his birth mother. Though as far as technicality was concerned, she was more Maes' mother when she married into the Hughes family. "Yes, my aunt."

"I feel like I'm overstaying my welcome," she murmured.

"You're not," he reassured her.

"Will Georgie be there?" she asked again. "And Alphonse?" she added, as if an afterthought.

"Yes, I'll invite the lads," he promised.

At that, her big eyes glimmered, a silent confirmation. And Roy could barely avert his gaze when an endearing smile lit up the rest of her pretty face.

* * *

On the next chapter: Foretelling the Past

"It's her birthday, everyone should be there," Roy said calmly. "And you're coming, too. I can't very well leave you home alone."

"If you care about them, you will tell Maes to cancel the party," Riza urged. When he merely lingered in silence, puzzling his thoughts, she dug frantic hands around his arms, desperate eyes clinging into his. "Please!"

He retreated a few steps back and lifted his hands in surrender, acquiescing, "Alright, alright. I'll talk to him. No promises, but I'll see what I can do."


	4. Foretelling the Past

A/N: A few days late, but I hope the length will make up for it! Happy New Year, everyone! :)

* * *

**Chapter 4: Foretelling the Past**

The doctor knocked once, twice. When there was no reply from the other side of the door, he opened. Roy had expected her room to be vacant, wagering the woman to be immersed in bubbles and hot water, an activity she claimed she had missed during her period of recovery. It was a simple remark spoken with an easy smile, as if it was something everyone should be doing. Roy had decided then that she had come from money. After all, not many could afford the same amenities the Hughes mansion could offer.

He found her perching by the vanity table, thick droplets from her wet, unbrushed tresses blotting her grey bathrobe. "Are you ready?" he asked.

Her elbows remained propped up on the table, fingers toying with the silver ring that had accompanied her since she arrived. "If I tell you… that I wasn't supposed to..." Riza began slowly, biding her time, "be born for another forty-six years... would you have believed me?"

In contemplation, Roy approached the lone figure, removing the flat cap on his head as if it would give him a vision to what she was truly asking. He let the gravity of her question sink in, thickening the air between them before he arrived at his conclusion. No, he thought. Unless there was proof, what she asked was just not possible.

"I'm afraid not, Riza."

Riza turned to him, the plump of her bottom lip stuck between her teeth. There was contention in her expression, as if what had poured out of her mouth contradicted her own belief. For a moment, only the noises of the world filled the spaces between them. Then her half chuckle interrupted, "No. I suppose I won't believe me either."

The three weeks that had passed inspired light conversations that taught him a little more about Riza Hawkeye. Roy had learned that she preferred the quiet of a book rather than the fanfare of a radio program, just like himself. The latest book she read was about America's greed and cynicism, penned by an author he had never heard called Mr. Ellroy. Roy had nodded and listened, posing the right questions when the time felt right, all the while thinking he had read all that there was to read.

Throughout the day, Riza had to have tea—dark and bold with three slices of lemon pressed and stirred with a spoon, which she claimed gave her an extra jolt of wakefulness. Roy informed her that the Hughes hoarded tea leaves from all over the world in their pantry. Earl Grey from London and Assam from, well, Assam, India. In his head, however, he had wondered if her taste buds had been compromised. To him, dark and bold and sour made the most repulsive combination.

Once, Riza volunteered a small tidbit about her grandfather, the most intimate account he had heard thus far. He was an unconventional and kind man who had raised her since she was sixteen. Admiration and awe floated around her as she narrated the simplified version of their first year together, with a smattering of silly "European accents" in which her grandfather had spoken in scattered in between. Roy remarked that she should become a writer, a storyteller. With a smile and a thanks, she insisted her grandfather told stories better than her. Even better than the Brothers Grimm.

But Riza Hawkeye was still quiet and reserved most days, keeping her secrets locked up within the walls of her silence. And what Roy could not get out of words, he pilfered from the set of her vibrant eyes, her tight mouths and ruddy cheeks. Before long, he found himself observing and analyzing her twitches and fidgets and laughters, dissecting the little things into a bigger picture. He was like Sherlock and Watson packaged into one, doctor by day, detective by night. And his proudest accomplishment was recognizing her glee whenever he mentioned the name "Georgie".

"Georgie and Alphonse are waiting in the car," Roy offered when Riza made no indications to move.

Riza made a tiny sound like a squeak and, enthusiastically, scrambled for the boar bristle brush on the table. He knew he had won her over with the magic word. Hurriedly, she tamed her dripping locks and asked for two minutes, which Roy granted by removing himself from the room.

Riza strolled out in pink roses and ivory laces, Gracia Hughes' summer dress that cascaded down to the curves of her calves. Her long hair was whipped into a low bun, the rest of it tucked underneath a cream-velvet cloche. As she drew near, she pulled on a pair of white gloves that served to highlight her outfit rather than for practicality purposes. For the first time, Riza Hawkeye looked like she belonged. And when she smiled upon seeing him, the steady thrum beneath Roy's chest screeched to a halt and took a tumble at the sight.

As he and Riza emerged from the foyer, Alphonse and Georgie cried out their hello's from the back seat of Roy's black Studebaker, Georgie's drowning Alphonse's by a few decibels. Like mother and son who had been lost in separation, Georgie Grumman's excitement mirrored Riza's own, who waved an eager hand and flashed a big, toothy grin. But there was no Riza Hawkeye anywhere in the Grumman family tree, and Roy made a silent promise to himself that he'd slice and dice and conclude their oddly familial interactions in great detail when he had the time.

Courteously, Roy opened the front door to his vehicle, motioning to Riza. But the woman gaped at his car as if it were one of the wonders of the world. He waited and watched her, while Georgie made a ruckus in the backseat, engaged in a war with Alphonse about Dazzy Vance and Herb Pennock and the speed of their pitch. When traces of her bewilderment made way to hesitation, Riza sliding glances to the back of the car where Georgie was sitting, Roy called out to Alphonse and instructed him to move and sit by the driver's side.

The ride to Chris Mustang's establishment took all of twenty minutes in Manhattan traffic. It was only four miles away, but the minutes carried on like an hour with the most peculiar set of passengers—a talkative child, an overly considerate adolescent, and a contemplative woman. Alphonse had been subdued by the view of the Harlem River that stretched on endlessly throughout their drive. Roy looked behind him and noticed Georgie. He sat in such close proximity to Riza that his pale shirt seemed to have blended into her pastel one. The child went on and on about the greatest meal of his life: hot dogs. From the backseat Riza laughed, and Roy never felt hungrier that morning as he fixed his eyes on the road.

"Have you ever eaten Nathan's World's Famous Beef Hot Dog with a lot of ketchup and a lot of mustard, Doc?" Georgie asked, producing the specifics as if he was teaching Roy how to eat a hot dog properly.

"I have, actually. It's delicious," Roy said.

Alphonse seemed to have taken an interest in the conversation and chimed in, "Doc took me there once. But I haven't had it again since. We'll have to make another visit soon, Doc."

"We should."

"And we have to take Riza, too! She said she likes hot dogs!" Georgie declared with a bounce, shaking the car. "And the four of us can go to Connie Island after and ride that scary ride again."

"Coney Island. But yes, we can take Riza, too," Roy nodded, feeling his heartbeat take a leap at what sounded like a date with two children in tow.

"Thank you, Doc! I knew you would say yes! _Mutti_ said you're always so nice and kind and helpful and that I should be a doctor just like you," Georgie continued.

"You can be a doctor when you grow up," Alphonse offered, leaning his head against the half-lowered window.

As if offended by Alphonse's comment, Georgie retorted, "I'm already eight, and _Vati_ started working when he was nine, only one year older than me."

Alphonse kept his calm and replied with all the wisdom of a twelve year-old, "Yes, but to be a doctor requires a lot of studying. You can't study medicine in one year. It's impossible."

"Of course I can," the boy said before mellowing out. A hint of desperation seeped through when he asked the next question, "Do you think I can be a doctor too, Doc? How long did you study?"

"Georgie, you will become a doctor when you grow up," Riza pacified, surety in her voice as if she'd known all along that Georgie would indeed become one.

With half a mind transfixed on the street names, Roy replied, "About two years in school, and then another two years in clinical training. You can be a doctor, too, Georgie."

The child's confidence returned with his acknowledgment, and a short finger poked Alphonse on the shoulder, which jerked the older boy in his seat. "See, Al! Doc said I can be one, too."

"I never said you can't," Alphonse corrected, swiveling towards the back with reproach around his mouth. "I just said it takes more than one year to study."

"Watch me do it in one year!"

"If you think you can do it."

Georgie hurled his arms skyward, screaming, "I'm going to be just like Doc!"

"Pipe down, you two. We're here," the doctor chided, concealing the mirth Georgie's conviction had wheedled out of him beneath a serious tone. The car pulled up in front of a brownstone building that resembled miniature French flats, crowded by strings of laundry that provided more insight into the kind of tenants who lived there more than Roy ever wanted to know. He heard Riza shushing Georgie into submission as the Studebaker sputtered to a stop.

At ten o'clock in the morning, Aunt Chris was still lounging around in her sleep robe, a cigarette in one hand, a glass of whisky in the other. Her jet black curls were long and loose, coiling around one side of her shoulders like an extension of her attire. She didn't care that they had a guest, someone she had never met before; her manner remained a queen in the comfort of her palace.

Beside him, Riza bounced wonder from one corner of the small, rundown apartment to the next, marveling at everything. Her brown eyes had morphed into an owl's before Georgie gave her a pull at her hand. Riza stooped down to the boy's height.

Georgie whispered, though his voice wasn't as hushed as it should be, "This is only my second time here, but it's still smaller than Mr. Hughes' house."

"You're being impolite, Georgie," Alphonse scolded. "I apologize, Mrs. Hughes."

"And you're always so awfully polite, Alphonse. Just call me Chris. I haven't been called Mrs. Hughes since my husband died," she returned with an easy smile, sashaying her hips to where the entire party was. Chris glanced down at Georgie, her amusement sprinkled with laughter, "You don't like my _carraig beag_, little Georgie? It's a wonderful dump."

"What's a car-rig-beg?" Georgie asked, oblivious to the insult he had just thrown at the mistress of the house.

Chris bent down to his height, cupping his round chin between her thumb and forefinger. "It means 'little rock'. This is my little rock, darling, and Mr. Hughes' house will never provide me the same comfort as this dumping ground." And then she looked up to the woman standing by the boy, settling on her. Riza seemed to have been frozen in her spot. "And you must be Riza. Pleasure to meet the girl who's been keeping my Roy-boy away."

A lovely rouge splashed Riza's skin like sunset, but Roy was certain it did not come from Chris' pesky remark but rather from her commanding presence. Then he noticed that her eyes were giddy, her feet appearing springy, as though Christine Mustang had been President Coolidge and all of his sterling reputation. When she took his aunt's hand in hers, a shortness of breath trailed after her, "The pleasure is all mine, Miss Mustang. I've been wanting to meet you… You have no idea how excited I am to be here."

"I still don't get it," Georgie murmured to himself, shaking his head. His mind was still reeling over the monstrosity that was Hughes' home and Aunt Chris' smaller one.

"Chris, are Vanessa and Madeline here? I was hoping they could help Riza with her outfit," Roy said.

Chris wasted no time appraising Riza from head to toe like she would the women she hired. "There's nothing wrong with her outfit, boy. The girl looks beautiful in it," she declared.

"She's wearing Gracia's dress. She could use some of her own."

Chris rounded to Alphonse and Georgie, "Miss Winry is back from her trip. I'll have one of the girls take you to her house so you won't have to wait around here while we do the boring, adult stuff."

The two boys nodded.

Immediately, Chris called to her girls, and Roy was greeted by a couple of giggling women gliding down a creaky staircase. Madeline was absent, but a brunette he had not met tailed not far behind Vanessa. Tendrils of thick, voluminous hair flowed behind the woman, her scalp clasped by a headband with a jaunty peacock plume. Her eyes were tinted violet, round and amorous, the kind that fickle men wouldn't mind losing themselves in, and her smile was electric.

Like a mockingbird, Vanessa and her billowing finery swooped down towards him. Her long flaxen waves had been clipped to her chin to match the recent style, her open arms ready to wrap him into a giant embrace. "Roy! It's been so long! Where have you been?" Vanessa squealed as she knitted him into a hug.

Vanessa had always treated him like he was the only man in the world. Never short of compliments for him, and never short of affection. But today, her gesture felt too much. Roy could feel Riza's eyes following them, determining a relationship that hadn't been established by either party.

Roy shook himself off of her and remedied with an introduction, "Riza, this is Vanessa. She works for Chris and lives here with her."

The two women shook hands, Vanessa combing Riza up and down, left and right, just as Chris had. Roy turned to the unfamiliar woman, "And you are?"

"Rebecca Catalina. Nice to finally meet you, Dr. Mustang." Rebecca painted a friendly face, taking his hand and shaking it before winking at Riza. "Chris hired me last month, but the doctor here was too busy with you to attend my welcome party. Shall we, doll?"

Vanessa seemed a little taken aback by Rebecca's revelation and flaunted a visible frown for everyone to see, vying for attention. Tentatively, Riza looked at Roy, as if asking permission to leave his side. He encouraged her with a nod, reminding Rebecca to take good care of her, which the woman reciprocated by waving him away, as though his request had been nonsensical.

"Vanessa, can you take the kids to Pinako's house?" Chris supplied.

Vanessa whined, "Why didn't you tell Rebecca to do it? I could have attended to Riza."

"Because what I say in this house goes."

The blonde moaned and grumbled, but Georgie didn't wait to grab her hand and dragged her out of the apartment. Vanessa shrieked down the hallway, and Alphonse whooshed after them like a small hurricane, a long string of reprimand for the younger boy receding with their distance.

Puzzled, Roy asked when they'd gone, "What's wrong with Vanessa?"

His aunt piled on a condescending stare. "Are you serious?"

"What?"

"You really don't know?"

"What are you on about?" Roy countered, frustration leaking from his voice.

"Let's just say she is better off away from you and our pretty guest," Chris said, gesturing towards the kitchen. The woman set her whisky on the countertop and blew a puff of her tobacco, a spiral of smoke climbing to the beamed ceiling. "I suppose you want to hear what I have on Miss Hawkeye?"

"Did Maes ask you to do it?"

"He did."

The doctor let out a disappointed groan. Evidently his brother hadn't trusted his judgment enough that he had required his aunt to look into her, too. "Let's hear it then."

"There are no birth _or_ death certificates by the name of Riza Hawkeye, but I was able to look into her surname and found a man called Theodore Hawkeye living in the Bronx. Age thirty-four and unmarried, Theo is a traveling salesman for General Electric and is of Native American and Irish origin. His mother's side of the family had emigrated here during the potato famine. His father's had traveled from Massachusetts to New York at the turn of the century. And this is interesting: a known Hawkeye trait is amber ring around their eyes," Chris emphasized. "I could see streaks of amber in her eyes, too, which means they could be related. But without her confirmation, we can only speculate."

"But there's nothing of concern?" Roy asked, needing to scratch the itch that niggled at the back of his mind as he listened to Theodore's saga.

"He's squeaky clean and has no connections to the concerning families. A good, Catholic Irishman who has always paid his taxes on time," she concluded.

Relieved, Roy released the breath he had been holding. Christine Mustang was rarely erroneous in her intelligence gathering, as proven by an impeccable record in the thirty years she had been in the business. He had been bracing himself against a possible storm, in case something concerning was indeed found on her. Roy didn't know what it was about Riza Hawkeye. But if the woman had been Frankie's or had belonged to another crime family, he would have felt like he'd been shot, just as she had when he found her.

"Where is Edward? I thought he'd come, knowing Winry is back."

At this, Roy pinched the bridge of his nose, and his mind traveled from Riza to the boy in his care, Alphonse's older brother. A wave of dejection crashed against him like a tonne of bricks at the thought. "Edward refuses to be near me. Why would you think Winry could change his mind?"

What he said wasn't especially funny, but Chris started to laugh loudly, obnoxiously, "Roy, you may be a clever, twenty-six year-old doctor with no shortage of women who'd flock to you at all times of the day, but you are absolutely clueless where the heart is concerned."

His eyes widened. "You think Edward likes Winry?"

"He doesn't just like her, he's smitten by her! The kid knows a kind and pretty girl when he sees one."

"Obviously Winry is not a good enough reason for him to be here today."

"Make sure you invite him next week. I want to see that boy, maybe talk to him a little, so he won't give you such a hard time. And I wouldn't take everything he said too personally if I were you. Edward is thirteen. He's at a rebellious stage, and he's going to blame everything on you, even knowing what really happened."

"Yes. He could be a nightmare sometimes," Roy murmured, the boy's outbursts and acts of defiance bobbing to the top of his head.

A cackle gushed from her throat, "You were a nightmare at thirteen, too. Talking back all the time even when I'd told you to shut up. You were no different than him, and it took a certain kind of personality to turn that around."

He taunted in good humor, "You mean verbal threats and death glares?"

His aunt shook her head. "Patience and consistency."

"Forcing me to take up piano as punishment? That's patience and consistency?"

"It makes you all the more charming," she snorted.

"And now you have the perfect son," Roy smirked in jest.

Aunt Chris looked at him, a mix of pride and adoration and concern. Her free hand rose to cradle his cheek. It was a rare display of affection that made Roy want to curl into her, prolonging the tenderness and warmth of a mother. She said fondly, "You're a boastful son, if anything."

Roy reached up to touch her hand, covering it beneath his palm. He felt her rough thumb tracing circles across his skin, and he was suddenly five again, fighting the strong urge to spill his thoughts and worries to his adopted mother. "Armstrong is after Maes and I'm afraid for you," Roy blurted.

The circles ceased. Chris dropped her hand to her side and watched him mutely, her expression blank. Roy tensed. But then he saw a shade of a smile flit across her lips. Then his aunt patted his cheek, and any sentiments she had for her nephew dwindled to a derisive command, "Go check on the troublemaker. She should be ready by now."

He ran his fingers through his hair and pushed himself away from the counter. "Troublemaker? Riza is hardly trouble."

"I know trouble when I see one," Chris simply said. "Oh, and if Vanessa returns before you're both gone, please don't get her all worked up. She brings in the best customers, and I want to keep her around."

Roy squinted at her in confusion, but the woman had already nursed a new glass of whisky and was no longer paying him any heed. Roy ascended the narrow staircase and proceeded to the door by the landing. He called after Riza, and from behind the door a muffled voice shouted that it was safe to enter. Rebecca was missing from the room, no longer attending to her, but Riza stood in front of an elongated mirror, a leather valise by her side, which he guessed contained her new wardrobe.

That was the moment Roy realized what trouble had meant when Aunt Chris talked of it. Her new haircut sat just above her shoulders, coaxing a sensual neck. A bold teal adorned her from the curve of her neck to the slim line of her shins, an outing dress that looked plain and modest compared to Gracia's—less frills and ornamentations. But the simplicity of it drew his gaze from the distracting floral prints to the woman in it. It fit her, form and color and shape, and the darker tone gave her skin a golden luster that echoed the shine of her mane. Riza Hawkeye was beautiful. And Roy Mustang was in deep trouble.

"Is it too short?" Riza asked, a reluctant hand running through the new length of her trimmed locks. "Rebecca said she's an excellent hairdresser and that this style would look good on me."

Roy smiled even when he knew she wasn't looking at him. "Rebecca's right. It looks perfect."

Finally Riza turned around, and Roy was able to drink in her entire picture. The last time he had been robbed of his speech was in grade school, an attempt at professing love gone sour. Now, he found himself losing it just the same. He wouldn't—_couldn't_—repeat the embarrassment and tried to save himself, pointing to the luggage beside her. He had wished for eloquence but ended up stammering, "Are you… uh... happy... with the rest of your wardrobe?"

"Yes. I've got everything I need in that suitcase. How can I repay you and your aunt? I'm afraid whatever money I have would be of no use here."

Quickly, he shook his head. "No need. Chris may live in a dump, but it's more for nostalgia reasons than financial issues."

Riza shrank at his words. "But I don't feel right taking things for free. Maybe I can work for your aunt?" she suggested. "Or for you?"

For him? The kind of work he thought of at the moment was nothing in the line of appropriate. "There's no need, Riza. Really."

"Please? There must be something I can do," she supplicated.

And Riza could be persuasive when she wanted to be. "Stubborn woman," he mumbled.

But she had heard. "I may be stubborn, Dr. Mustang, but you are an impossible man. Give me something to pay you back with."

"Alright. Then how about you accompany me to Chris' party next week?" Roy challenged. The invitation flowed out before he could staunch it.

Her eyes grew wide, and she mouthed a quiet "uh" that sounded a lot like regret, like she shouldn't have riled him up into this predicament.

The doctor shifted the feet that had transformed into gelatin beneath him, wanting to erase a portion of their gap but fearing rejection, and stopped himself before she could devour him whole. His chest ached with dread, and he berated himself for the nervousness that was noosing around his throat and once again stealing his coherence, "So… what do you... say?"

"What party is this?" Riza inquired.

He harrumphed, pretending nothing had been amiss, and collected himself, "Chris calls it her 'over the hills' celebration. The big five-o. It's held at The Endicott."

Her brows furrowed. Soon, the steady gaze that had been on him was wild with alarm. Riza chopped their distance until she stood inches away, his eyes forced from her changing expression to her moving lips.

"You said next week? At The Endicott? It wouldn't be on August the eighteenth, would it?"

And Roy was astonished. He hadn't told her the date, and yet she knew. _Was this some kind of a trick?_ He stood frigid. "How did you know it's on August the eighteenth?"

She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, "Shit. So I was right."

"How did you know?" he repeated, her reaction twisting knots in his stomach.

"I'm... not even sure if I'm supposed to tell you..." Promptly, Riza meandered a sinuous course around the room, her brown eyes penetrating the floor before piercing back up into his. "It's hard for me to explain…. But you can't go!"

"What are you talking about?" he pressed, irritation peeling from his tone.

Instead of answering, she threw another question that tripped his brain around in riddles, "Who else is going to be there besides your aunt, Maes, and Gracia? Vanessa and Rebecca? Georgie and Alphonse, too?"

It took a long, deep intake of oxygen and a few seconds of peace for his mind to clear. Riza was vehement with her irrationality. _But why?_ "It's her birthday, everyone should be there," Roy said calmly. "And you're coming, too. I can't very well leave you home alone. Besides, Maes has already spent a fortune to get things in order."

"If you care about them, you will tell Maes to cancel the party," Riza urged. When he merely lingered in silence, puzzling his thoughts, she dug frantic hands around his arms, desperate eyes clinging into his. Her voice rose to meet her height on tiptoes. "Please!"

He retreated a few steps back and lifted his hands in surrender, acquiescing, "Alright, alright. I'll talk to him. No promises, but I'll see what I can do."

Riza breathed in relief. "Good."

But he continued, stern and unrelenting, "Though I think I'm entitled to your reasons if I were to convince Maes he won't be getting his deposit back. So, tell me, Riza. Why should we cancel the party?"

She clamped her mouth shut and did not squeak a word.

Roy searched her gaze, but she refused to meet it. Lifting his hand, he touched her chin and gently turned her toward him. He asked again, "Riza? Why should we cancel the party?"

Her shoulders slumped like a ragdoll when she finally met his eyes. There was clear remorse and grief on her countenance, as if she was about to deliver news of someone's death. She shook her head, as if disapproving of her decision, "Your aunt shouldn't be there. Gracia and her baby, too..."

This was the third time Riza Hawkeye had stunned him with the strangest detail about his family. So far, everything she said had been true. About Chris Mustang several weeks ago. About the eighteenth of August. And now, about Gracia and her baby. No one had been told except for Chris and Roy. And all he could do was stare. Suspicious. Wary. Apprehensive. He didn't bother to hide any of it. The woman's intimate knowledge of his family was terribly shocking.

Riza continued, gurgling a choke as her face took on the paleness of a ghost, "A gang of shooters will storm the banquet after Maes gives his toast. There will be casualties. Civilians. Guards from the hotel. And… your aunt is one of them."

Instantly, a dull ache roiled and swelled inside his stomach. Equal parts terror and disbelief filled him to the brim. There was absolutely no way. Absolutely not. But Roy considered what she knew of his family, the private and the personal, and he'd become afraid. "You're lying."

"I'm not lying," she groaned, her eyes rolling in disdain.

He glared at her and pointed an accusatory finger, "Stop lying. I don't appreciate liars."

Surprise and hurt flooded her gaze. Clearly she was not expecting him to point and accuse. Riza smacked his incriminating finger, hard, and hissed, "I'm only trying to help."

He scoffed, "Then help me. What's going to happen on August the eighteenth at the Endicott? Tell me."

"Alright. Maes will get shot on his right leg, and his gait will never fully recover, which will lead to a whole other chain of events. Your head of security will try to smuggle him out, but he's going to have a hell of a hard time because your brother is stubborn and will insist that he stay and look after his pregnant wife." Riza dropped premonition after premonition like a barrage of missiles, rapid and unstoppable. "And as for Chris, you know she will do anything to protect her family, so you can figure out what she's going to do next."

The information was too much and too fast until all Roy could do was sneer and laugh, "You left Gracia's part out of your prophecy."

Riza let out a heavy sigh, ignoring his ridicule. The heat that had dictated her tone seemed to have dissipated as she proceeded calmly, "Roy, please listen to me."

Roy didn't move nor speak. She reached for his hand. He flinched at her touch. But he ordered himself to calm down and let her have her way.

"What I've told you is a lot to take in. I get it," she appealed. "And while nothing makes a lot of sense right now, please trust me when I say I have your family's best interest at heart."

"I don't believe you," Roy asserted. "I don't believe any of it."

She clasped his hand tighter. He squeezed, as if it would extract the truth out of her. Her palm was moist with sweat, like his.

"No one knows who they are, but the D'Aquila crime family is highly suspected. They have been on a rampage to clear out the Irish mobsters off of the streets of New York," Riza went on, as if providing more accounts would take her into his confidence. Sadness overtook as she told the next piece, her voice lowering, her eyes glistening, "As to what happens to Gracia, I can tell you she will walk out of the party alive. But the stress from that night will stay with her throughout her pregnancy. Some people think that is the reason she will birth a stillborn baby."

The image of her predictions rendered him mute. Gracia was only three months along, but their spare room had already been decorated in pastels and creams, stuffed with a fat sheep and lamb and a rocking horse. If it were to be true, Gracia would be devastated. And Maes, all fuel and flames, would scour the ends of the earth to find the person responsible and bring them down with his own hands. The whole affair would practically finish Olivier Armstrong's job for her, and she didn't even have to move a muscle. What would happen then?

By the time Roy found his speech, his gaze had blackened, shadowed by trepidation, "I don't know if I trust you, Riza. Hell, I don't even know who you really are. But you've just put me in a pinch, because I can't let any of this to happen now, can I?"

Riza wound a joyless smile. Gingerly, she pulled him into her and placed a comforting hand on his head. Her warm breath tickled his neck when she spoke, "There is nothing to lose. If it doesn't happen—_and God knows I don't want it to happen_—then you can be relieved and yell at me, call me a liar again and... kick me to the curb."

He sighed and closed his eyes, thinking and considering, hoping it was all a terrible dream, imagining the worst. He mumbled into her hair, "Alright."

* * *

On the next chapter: The Mystery Men

Her concentration was soon fixed on the enormous double doors. But Vanessa and her soft blonde curls and her dark red lips strutted towards her with an intimidating glare. An unhealthy red skimmed across the woman's cheeks, and Riza would have thought her sober if not for them.

With a wine glass around her precarious grip, Vanessa hissed, threat dripping from her voice, "You will stay away from Roy, or else."

If it had been a different time and place, Riza would have obliged, if only to get her off her back. But the night's tension had eroded what composure she had left. The snark in her reply surprised even herself, "Why? He's not yours." Then Riza narrowed her eyes at the woman, giving her a taste of her own threat, "And you're going to die if you don't stop drinking."


	5. The Mystery Men

**Chapter 5: The Mystery Men**

The Endicott Hotel reigned over the Upper West Side alongside a strip of daytime establishments. Everything nearby had closed, the interior dark and the doors chained up, but the terracotta building stood out like a gigantic billboard in the middle of Times Square. The columns of windows were bright, and the driveway brighter. Twin searchlights sat on the lot on Maes' order, scouring the sky and scaring the moon into hiding, and the _thump, thump, thump_ of the music—the liveliest jazz Riza had ever heard—leaked out of the facility and flooded the quiet neighborhood.

Riza spotted the hired officers just beneath the awning, or "bulls" as Roy had referred to them. They rimmed the hotel's curb in white suits and trousers, each one parading around with a roll of cigarette like another invitee who sought respite from the hubbub of laughter and conversation inside. The doctor had begged his brother to install them at her insistence. _Just in case_, Riza had pleaded, _we can't take any chances_. Roy listened and obeyed, though the hard, contemplating stare with which he gave her thereafter had pricked thorns in her belly. He hadn't believed her, she decided. And it bothered her when it shouldn't.

From inside of the Rose Room on the third floor, Riza counted the row of Cadillacs and Rolls Royces parked on Columbus Avenue. They looked like they came out of a collection of Roaring Twenties stock photos. But rather than black and white, the pictures were sprayed in thrilling red and cool blue and neon yellow, every color imaginable and the multitude of shades in between. There were twenty, maybe twenty-five. All luxury cars. And as exciting as the automobiles were their passengers.

"Riza, I'm going to say hi to Richie over there. Will you be alright by yourself?" Rebecca asked behind her shoulder. Her pretty face glowed to match her sunshine finery glittered in crushed crystals. Riza had forgotten she had been standing there with her all this time.

Following the woman's coy smile, Riza outlined a man with balding head at the threshold of the ballroom. He was gaunt and pencil thin, and his half-covered right leg was made out of wood. Richie must be Richard "Peg Leg" Lonergan. The leader of the White Hand Gang. They were an Irish American gang who controlled New York's waterfronts. He should have been as young as twenty-five, but he could doubtlessly pass as a forty year-old. It must be all the stress and relentless chasing after Frankie Yale that had him looking like he could be blown away by the summer wind.

Riza smiled. "Yes, go on. I'll be fine."

The mayor of New York was also in attendance, a Mr. Hylan, along with his wife. The city's police commissioner strolled in not long after, sharply dressed in a three-piece suit that did nothing to compress the size of his swollen gut. Scandals surrounded the man—widespread police corruption and rising violence from bootlegging. If Riza hadn't been fidgeting out of her wits, she would have approached the pot bellied man with every intention of prodding into his character.

Over one hundred guests attended tonight. Each one of them important and carried a crucial bearing to New York and its boroughs. All were dressed handsomely and beautifully. And all were similarly clueless as to what would happen tonight at Endicott Hotel.

Through the bay window Riza continued to peer, scouting for suspicious men but seeing none. The lack of activity hadn't done much to peel the perspiration off her palms. The shooters could be anyone. They could already be here as guests and she wouldn't know any better. She turned to the party. Mumbling under her breath, she damned them all for appearing so convincing while the red wine in her glass sloshed this way and that like a turbulent storm. Riza rested her weary eyes at the far end of the room, and the first sight she caught was of Roy.

The doctor was wedged between Vanessa and Gracia, his posture guarded, both hands deep in his trousers like a reticent participant. A splash of brilliantine smoothed his unruly hair into a glossy slicked-back under the luminous chandeliers, sculpting a man of his era. He had abandoned his tuxedo, no longer wearing it as he did earlier in the night, and Riza tilted her head as her gaze roamed in wonder. His dark vest accentuated an athletic frame that sheltered and protected, a capable set of shoulders that governed tireless muscles beneath a shapely torso. It tempted her to wrap her arms around him and see how well she fit within the safety of his embrace.

But the weight of the past moored her earthbound, heavy and encumbering. It warned her that she was seeing too much, touching and hearing and feeling things she shouldn't have. Maybe some greater being up high would strike her down now, gaveling her punishment for meddling with history. Media had always warned viewers against that. Maybe there was something there. But her rumination drifted from Roy to little Georgie Grumman—his tiny laughter, his endearing prattle, his life ahead of him. And Riza wasn't sure she could cope with the idea of leaving him anytime soon.

Across the room, Roy smiled. Not at her but at an older woman who had just arrived and greeted him with a wave of her hand. His smile was soft and pleasant, and the air in her lungs suddenly held and tightened. Riza bit her lip, and damned him too for the distraction she couldn't afford on a night like tonight.

"What are you looking at?" a jovial voice asked from beside her.

Startled, Riza cocked her head and came face-to-face with Maes Hughes. He had a party horn in his hand instead of his favorite drink like she imagined he would—bourbon on the rocks stirred with a touch of honey. New York was never interested in enforcing the law that banned the sale and manufacturing of alcohol. Speakeasies were everywhere, a booming business in time of prosperity, and a few hundred dollars could easily command the local police to look the other way.

Maes glanced to his left, a smirk capturing his mouth. "Ah. You were looking at my brother."

Her heart took a plunge at his observation. "I wasn't," she lied through gritted teeth.

"Why is he over there and not over here?" he asked, snatching a piece of hors d'oeuvre from the party tray of a passing waiter.

"I don't know," Riza confessed. If the mobster had noticed her downturned lips, he didn't say anything. Roy had been keeping himself away since the day she'd shared confidence. It was as if something unacknowledged had surfaced in that moment, bloating into a rift between them.

Maes turned on his heels and hummed in his brother's direction. Her eyes were slower to follow, until he remarked, "He's a good looking fella, isn't he?"

Breathlessly, she answered, the heat on her cheeks spreading over her face. "Yes."

"The ladies have always flocked to him. They adore him. And we've had our fair share of fun in our younger years, but now that we're older and _much_ wiser, none of them has tempted him to settle down like it had me. Can you believe that?"

"Maybe he hasn't found the one."

He stared her down and grinned conspiratorially. "No. He'd only go for a lass with the appearance of a lab rat and with the stench of his medical books."

Riza chuckled. The mobster had a sense of humor, just as her grandfather had said time and again. Maes Hughes wasn't all hard and rigid as some history journals had declared. "You aren't drinking tonight, Mr. Hughes," Riza commented.

"I'm abstaining tonight. I need to keep a clear head."

"Because of what Roy told you?" she pondered aloud.

"Yes, because of what _you_ told him. You could have spoken to me directly, Miss Hawkeye. There's no need to involve my brother. He was never interested in what our family does for a living."

"But he cares about you and your family. He wouldn't want to see any of them get hurt. Though I'm surprised you believed hi- _me_ at all," she corrected.

"I didn't," he plainly admitted. "Not a single word."

"Oh. But the undercover officers…"

"Aren't you curious why I placed them here?" Maes winked. His mischief retreated and gave way to a cold expression. The intensity of his ebony eyes chilled her, skin and bones, his severe mouth gusting icy vapors into the balmy temperature, "Maybe I want to see what _you_ would do when the things you said do happen. Maybe I want to see _your_ reaction. The moment you regret you'd grown a conscience and told my brother Frankie's secret plan after he saved you. So, if I don't catch you, Riza, then my hired help will. There's nowhere for you to run."

She argued, "I'm telling you, I'm not Frankie's-"

The round of his shoulders lifted up and fell with the disregard in his tone, "Sure you're not."

Annoyed, Riza bit back, "And what if something were to happen to Chris like Roy told you?"

"Nothing will happen to Chris tonight. I've promised my brother."

"And if something were to happen to you? Your leg? What then?"

The crinkle of a ruthless smile crept into his well-formed lips then, and Riza sensed worms squirming up her spine, "If something _does_ happen to me as _you_ predicted, then I know exactly what I want to do with you."

She grew queasy as the possibility of his exploitation of her sprang in her mind. "You mean…"

But the mobster had already made a move to leave, calling out to the bespectacled man who strayed past them with a musing on his face. "Ah! Fuery!" Maes beckoned.

Fuery seemed a little lost and adrift when he approached, his unsteady gait beneath him. The smell of cigarettes he didn't smoke lingered around him. He must have been outside with the officers who had been puffing and blowing tobacco like a chimney.

"Will you keep Miss Hawkeye company, please? My beautiful wife is in need of rescuing from Mr. and Mrs. Loudmouth over there."

The young man nodded, silent, and Maes acknowledged her before walking away, "Enjoy the party, Miss Hawkeye."

Fuery made a sound to speak, but Riza interrupted, "Please, Kain. Don't feel obligated to talk to me. I'm perfectly fine by myself."

"That's alright, Miss Riza. I haven't had a chance to ask you how you are doing since the last time we met."

Fuery was right. It had been over a month since their first and last meeting. "I'm doing well," she smiled, "and thank you, Kain. I haven't been able to tell you until now."

"For what?"

"For saving me."

A cherry-red blush flared across his cheeks. He looked like a child who had only received his first compliment. "I didn't do anything, Miss Riza. If anything, I got you shot for calling you over. Anyway, Mr. Hughes gave me a nice bottle of whiskey that week and told me I was a brave soul. That was enough thanks for me."

"Please call me Riza," she said. "Do you like working for Mr. Hughes, Kain?"

"Of course, Miss- _er_\- Riza." His neck flushed at his blunder. Swiftly, Kain pushed his circular glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Mr. Hughes has been nothing but kind to me ever since I started working for him three years ago. I was only out of school then and didn't know what I wanted to do with my life. He offered me a position when he caught me tinkering with my da's radio on our veranda."

"Oh. Are you good with electronics?"

"A little. I enjoy taking apart a radio, a telephone, or a phonograph and studying the inner workings. I just never thought that would actually get me a job!" he exclaimed with a big smile, and there was something about his appearance that caught her attention.

"You look familiar to me, Kain," Riza simpered, "and you remind me of my assistant at the university." She winced when she realized she had given too much. This was no time to be reckless with Maes Hughes breathing down her neck.

"Do you teach at the university?" Kain asked.

She considered her answer carefully, "Yes. I teach history."

A flash of excitement tore into a grin on his face, and Riza blew an air of relief when Fuery decided to turn the subject of their conversation back to Maes Hughes. "Mr. Hughes donated a lot of money to the medical program at Columbia. That's the university Dr. Mustang graduated from. People say the gangsters are all bad people, but Mr. Hughes has done many things that are good, too."

"Like what?" Riza asked, her curiosity perking.

"He would throw parties for his neighbors, food and games and all that. He knows he has the money to spare. He would also visit orphanages and buy the children toys. Oh, but that might be at his wife's insistence…"

"Well, either way, he sounds like a decent human being," Riza concluded to Fuery, whose face lit up as he concurred with a nod.

The camaraderie that passed between them broke with the clinking of a champagne flute. Standing in the center of the room, the head of the family called the attention of his guests._ Clink, clink, clink._

With a sincere smile and a smooth repartee, Maes Hughes conducted the crescendo of laughter into hushed silence. He proceeded to thank the audience for their attendance and wished Aunt Chris a happy birthday. Effortlessly, he swooped in with a joke about her ripe age, knocking the guests down with laughter once again before snatching them back up into a trip down memory lane. A few of the ladies were in wistful tears by the time he finished his speech. Downing the drink in his hand, Maes closed it with a reminder to "gobble up the rest of the alcohol before he gets into trouble."

Charisma came naturally to him, and Riza could not have been more magnetized. Articles and academic papers did little to describe how it felt to be lulled in his presence. People encircled him after the speech. He was glamorous without trying too hard. He was reassuring without needing to say the words. In an instant, Riza understood why his family had survived while the other Irish crime families had perished. Maes Hughes was loved rather than feared, and everyone wanted to be his friend. Above all, Riza understood why Roy Mustang would not turn him away, even when he seemed reluctant to be a part of it all.

Now that the mobster had given his toast, her new mission for the night awaited. The contents in her stomach shook as she confronted the entrance to the Rose Room. Trudging to the window, she swung a foreboding gaze to the street down below that had mellowed out since the celebration commenced.

The Brooklyn Eagle article she had combed and sifted through during her tenure had mentioned a time and a place. Each sentence had embedded itself into her memory. _"Maes Hughes had given his speech. No more than a half hour later, a group of men charged into the classy Endicott Hotel, riddling bullets into the large decorative vase at the center of the room and taking down civilians and guards along with it. An eyewitness claimed that Christine Hughes-Mustang threw herself in front of her stepson..."_

The night only grew quieter outside and rowdier inside. Through the window, the occasional passersby would stop to look in on the raucous. A handful of couples walked by with a flyer of _Wild Horse Mesa_ from the theater she had passed by on the cab ride to Endicott Hotel. A few taxis rumbled past. A few cars. But no one stepped out of them with a Tommy Gun in their hands.

And Riza could not stand idle and wait.

Her fists at her sides, she elbowed her way through the dancing and the drunk and spied the side of the stage where the jazz band stocked up a nest of microphone stands. She grabbed the sturdiest one and weighed it in her hand. Ignoring the perplexed looks of the musicians, she hauled the item from the back of the hall all the way to the front where she expected a slew of mystery gunners to come and burst in sooner than later.

At the doors, Riza stuffed the gold-plated handleset with the metal tripod, testing its effectiveness and testing it again, letting the frantic drum of her pulse carry the hope that it would hold.

A hand skimmed her shoulder and left as swiftly as it had arrived. Roy stood inches behind her, looking worse for wear, his bangs falling over his eyes, and Riza would have struck his face had he been any closer when she whipped around. His hands clenched and unclenched, tension riding his shoulders as the lines of his muscles pulled and stiffened. He seemed as anxious as she was, but the whole affair became less daunting now that he was with her.

"What are you doing?" Roy asked, worry thick in his voice. Reluctantly, he placed a delicate hand on her upper back and began to steer her away. "Don't stand so close to the windows."

She shrugged him off, resisting, "It gives me peace of mind when I can see who comes and goes."

"And it gives me peace of mind to see you away from there," Roy replied, taking her hand. His tone left no room for argument.

"So you believed me?" Riza croaked, her voice grating like sandpaper. She let her contemplation slip out before she even realized.

"I don't know," he muttered without pausing to think. "But I'm not taking any chances."

"Can you ask everyone to leave?" she implored, planting her feet in defiance.

He stopped short of his stride and faced her. Tautly, he gripped her arms, and leaned into her face, his voice full of promises, "I'll get them out, Riza. I'll get them out, so don't you worry about that." He pointed to the single white door at the other side of the stage. Another entryway. "You need to get out, too. Now. Don't let my mind circle back to you while I'm gone."

A promise made is a promise kept. But not tonight.

She nodded knowing she couldn't follow through.

Convinced, Roy left and lost himself in a sea of tumbling revelers and coiling smokes. Riza spun back towards the window and watched the carved wooden doors with the intensity of a hawk, dismissing Rebecca who chose to call out to her out of concern. Straining to listen, she picked up Roy's frustration in the urgency of his explanation as he persuaded and consoled the guests that another party awaited them on the rooftop, just a few staircases away through the rear of the stage, an impressive concoction at such a short time.

Another five minutes went by.

Perhaps she had been mistaken, she thought. Nothing was happening. When her hands began to tremble, she decided to assist Roy in fabricating the excitement of the party upstairs. Riza giggled and lied through the haste of her heartbeat. Progress was slow, but when the jazz band ceased their play, many who had been dancing and dawdling nearby eventually swiveled around and began to flow into the exit without question.

Across the hall Vanessa caught her gaze, as if sensing her deception, and the woman sipped her drink without easing the blatant scrutiny.

Her eyes floated to Roy, who seemed everything but successful at convincing the rest of the mingling guests to leave. There were forty of them left, fifty. Gracia Hughes and his aunt remained chattering and clucking in one corner of the hall, the older woman neglecting her nephew's plea.

At last, Chris upraised her arms, ire in her countenance, and proceeded to balk at the doctor before striding towards the washroom. Gracia stalked after her husband, who promptly regarded Riza with a pair of angry eyes. She swallowed the pebbles in her throat when Maes nodded and convinced his wife to trail after the crowd.

Her concentration was soon fixed on the enormous double doors. But Vanessa and her soft blonde curls and her dark red lips strutted towards her with an intimidating glare. An unhealthy red skimmed across the woman's cheeks, and Riza would have thought her sober if not for them.

A single brow raised, Vanessa sniffed, "Did Rebecca pick out that dress?"

Riza gathered the most sincere smile as the blonde measured the length of her emerald gown. "Yes, she did."

"What did Roy say about the dress?"

"He didn't say anything about it."

"Did he say he liked it?" Vanessa pressed.

Sighing, Riza attempted to reach for her drink. "Vanessa, you've had enough-"

The woman eluded her attempt as though she had been anticipating it. With a wine glass around her precarious grip, Vanessa hissed, threat dripping from her voice, "You will stay away from Roy, or else."

"Vanessa-"

"You stay away from him!" she barked.

If it had been a different time and place, Riza would have obliged, if only to get her off her back. But the night's tension had eroded what composure she had left. The snark in her reply surprised even herself, "Why? He's not yours." Then Riza narrowed her eyes at the woman, giving her a taste of her own threat, "And you're going to die if you don't stop drinking."

Vanessa's lips puckered with disdain, inflating into a low growl that warned Riza she wouldn't go down without a fight. The faint sound of a scuffle reached her before Vanessa could say any more. Riza shushed the woman harshly, the flick of an index finger at her mouth. Her ambivalence about the mystery men purged into dust when the evidence of a gunshot rang from the distant street.

Within moments, the noise escalated into a series of crossfire, louder and louder, closer and closer.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

The remaining guests gasped and cried, halting all activities in an instant. Before long, the doorway to the Rose Room were pocked with holes, the center that held the handles and knobs disfigured into a beehive. Simultaneously, the view outside the window turned black, pillaging the night of the searchlights and streetlamps.

A gunman dressed in an all black suit and a homburg hat crossed the threshold with a rifle in his hand.

He began to shoot.

"Run!" someone screamed.

Riza's first instinct was to grab the woman beside her, pulling her down by the length of her skirt. Both hands against her ears, Vanessa wept and sobbed, her fat tears tracking racoon eyes against her pasty complexion. The clangs and zings of bullets that bounced above their heads had her plump lips kissing the floor, her hands hugging the back of her head.

A thundering voice ripped from her right. "Everybody, this way!" It must have been Roy.

Men and women shrieked as they crawled and huddled towards Roy.

Christine Mustang was there among them.

"Roy!" Riza shouted.

_"Christine Hughes-Mustang threw herself in front of her stepson, protecting the textile magnate and philanthropist until the last of her dying breath. Her body slumped, but his was saved..."_

A few tripped and fell, some gave up their course and flattened themselves into the ground. The room was a shipwreck. They all wanted out.

Amidst the disorder, the doctor kept to his task, roaring and directing, herding the swarm of ants out the door before he grabbed the last person in line. He grabbed Aunt Chris by her wrist and pressed her forward, _out, out, out_, before slamming the door shut.

"Wh- who are they?" Vanessa whimpered next to her.

"I don't know!" Riza yelled over the racket. Her jaw had been clenched so tightly that it hurt to talk.

The shots were neverending, fired aimlessly and in rapid succession that all she could do was pray that they would run out of ammunition soon. Fear settled into her limbs, draining her of oxygen, pumping her heart until she was numb from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. To study the records of a gangster shootout was exhilarating that, at times, she could hardly sleep. But to experience it first hand was a nightmare she could not wake up from.

Those who stayed and fought flipped the scattered round tables that held party trays and swiped a submachine gun from underneath. Maes must have instructed his men to plant them there earlier in the night. Like flies, one of the gunmen dropped, two, and then another. A fourth body entered before he too collapsed and plopped against the window.

The din of the crowd only distended as they exited, their heads tucked into their hands as if it would dampen the commotion. Most, with the exception of Maes' hired help, had evacuated by the time Vanessa found her voice.

"Wh- what do we do?"

Riza pointed to the side of the stage where Roy crouched against the wall, his head pressed back. Her mind full and her tongue tied, it took three full seconds before she could articulate her intent. "Vanessa, I need you to get to Roy, okay?" she sputtered. "He can get you out."

Vanessa shook her head, disobeying. Carefully, Riza surveyed the space. Ten-fifteen people, all with a gun attached to their hands. White suited men against the black. Another mystery man fell to the ground. Then Maes Hughes followed with a thud.

_"Maes Hughes survived the affair with a gunshot wound to his right leg while her body, along with many others, splayed across the Palm Room…"_

Shoving Vanessa rather forcefully, Riza barked, "Go! Now! I promise you'll be safe."

Without looking back, the woman crawled towards the doctor and disappeared behind the stage.

The cacophony of gunshots grew quieter until it receded into an incessant buzzing in her ears. The burnt stench of gunpowder, unpleasant and strong, traveled the air and singed her nostrils she could almost taste it. As soon as the coast was clear, Riza proceeded to her feet and shuffled herself towards the writhing body slumped in the back corner of the Rose Room. With one knee pressed to his chest and another stretched out, Maes Hughes groaned in pain as his trembling hand blanketed an open wound on his right leg.

Kneeling, Riza asked with haste, "Can you get up?"

He pushed up with an elbow, grunting, "Where's Gracia? Chris?"

Mindfully, she wrapped an arm around his waist and hoisted up the rest of him. "They're safe. Roy got them out."

"It's the Sicilians… D'Aquila's men..." Maes continued with a strain. "They're working with Frankie."

She faced him. "The shooters?"

"Yes," the mobster confirmed, grimacing. "But what I want to know is-"

"-who told them about the change in venue," Riza completed for him impetuously. It was no time to be polite.

Roy returned within minutes and hurriedly slung an arm around his brother's back. The doctor was speechless, out of breath, and the creases on his forehead deepened as he mopped his face with the back of his hand. Their limbs tangled and tensed, they labored through the back door and crumbled to the ground when they spotted Heymans Breda, the family's head of security. Maes first, then she followed, exhaustion claiming her. Roy remained standing, as though expecting another storm to brew around the bend.

Maes panted, sucked in air, and challenged her, "Only my wife and Chris were informed beforehand, Riza. But the Sicilians knew exactly where to go."

Above him, Roy argued on her behalf, "I've been watching her all night, Maes. It wasn't her. She didn't leave the party let alone make a call."

She hadn't expected the mobster to howl at that. He morphed into a mad man, cackling with his chin angled up at the ceiling. "Jaysus, Roy! I knew you'd been compromised." He laughed again, louder, and turned to her. The sound was so garish and crass her insides curled with humiliation. "And feckin' Riza Hawkeye. You were right about my feckin' leg."

"It wasn't me, Maes," Riza murmured with a sigh, ducking her head. The fire to defend herself had already been extinguished.

"I know. I've been watching you. And Breda here had been keeping an eye on you all night, too," Maes replied. Then a rueful smile encroached his lips. "But someone certainly told Frankie."

* * *

On the next chapter: The Golden-Haired Brothers

The doctor was clearly irritable, Riza could see it. The young man, Alphonse's older brother, persisted with his silence, projecting his obstinacy with a spiteful glare and an excessive pout.

"Yes, I'm a teacher," Riza answered.

"Alright, great! That's settled then." Roy sniffed before turning to the blond lad, the deep trench between his brows reprimanding. "Edward, from now on she will be your tutor."


	6. The Golden-Haired Brothers

A/N: I'm sorry for the delay; the last few weeks had been difficult for me :(. But this story's back, and I hope it was worth the wait! Thank you for reading!

* * *

**Chapter 6: The Golden-Haired Brothers**

Two weeks had passed since the event of Aunt Chris's birthday. Everything seemed to have returned to normal, so normal that it felt as if the entire incident had never happened. Riza had moved into Roy's single dwelling home in Woodside not long after, a two-story brick house with a mahogany door in Queens, tucked behind a hilly green ready to be developed into a park. It was a good distance away from the Hughes' and lacking the modern conveniences of their palace. But the neighborhood seemed serene and safe, and where children were concerned, it was the perfect place to raise and care for them.

"It would be better for you to stay as far away while an investigation is ongoing. You don't have your papers, and I doubt the agency has yours. Pretend like you were never at the party if you don't want to get into trouble," the doctor had said.

Riza wished it had been as easy as pretending she was never there. But she _had_ been there, and she had seen too much blood and too many deaths in the last couple of months than the last twenty-nine years of her life. The nights were worse. It was the only time she had ever considered slipping on the burdensome ring, willing her memory to wipe away everything that had happened for a sliver of reprieve.

As decisive as she had been about leaving, Georgie would always sway her decision at the precise moments, a magical little boy with his magical presence and his magical laughs and giggles. Riza needed only to see her grandfather, and she found herself postponing her departure for another day, and then another, until two weeks had gone and she reeled back in defeat at her ambivalence. It didn't help that Roy's home had been so open and welcoming, a comfortable nest large enough to adopt two parentless birds, ready to take in another piteous, lonely bird among the flock.

Everything in between the slab of bricks was cozy yet practical. It flaunted the sterility of a doctor's office, clean and orderly, but it was warm with drawings of animals and landscapes courtesy of Alphonse's artful hands, and a vase of freshly picked daffodils gave the white living room a bit of sunshine and and the calming scent of a meadow. The house was also situated next door to the Grumman's family home, and Riza could not have been more elated.

Her grandfather had told her, once upon a time, that his mother had fallen sick with a terrible cough and wheeze, and Doctor Mustang had come to her rescue like a knight in shining armor but with a pair of stethoscope and a thermometer rather than a great sword and a shield. The first time Riza had picked up Georgie from his home, his mother had opened the door. Her great grandmother. Bewilderment and wonder dappled the pasty skin on her face, her mouth involuntarily hanging as she searched for a resemblance of herself in the family she had never known, until the woman knocked her out of her reverie with a deliberate clearing of her throat.

"May I help you?" the pale-eyed, dainty woman named Ilse, who Riza had learned spent most of her time baking chocolate pies and fussing over her grandfather, had asked.

"My name is Riza, the doctor's housekeeper. I'm here to pick up Georgie." Riza had told half a lie. She wasn't Roy's housekeeper, only a self-appointed one, but what else could she have said to convince his mother to release her only child?

"You're a little too clean and pretty to be his housekeeper. Maybe his housewife," Ilse had denounced softly with a demure smile, her clear German accent slipping through vibrantly. "I would have believed that if I didn't know the doctor well enough. His house could use a woman's touch."

The doctor's three bedroom home was situated at the right place and just the right size, and with Riza's shameful intrusion, the four of them made a lovely picture of the impeccable nuclear family. Even now as she watched her tiny grandfather arrange a cardboard house, a wooden truck, and a tinkertoy man and woman into a makeshift family along the rooftop ledge, Riza couldn't help but envision the life her grandfather had dreamed for her towards the end of his days.

"Can you hand me the truck over there?" Georgie hooted.

Her eyes searching, Riza picked up the one that looked like a bulldozer. "This one?"

Her grandfather took it from her hand. "Thank you."

Roaming the small mish-mash of assembly in curiosity, Riza couldn't help but ask, "What are you doing?" It was odd to see her grandfather's childish imagination come to life when less than two months ago he had dressed her wounds and tended to her needs like a fully functioning adult. She had to keep reminding herself that he was eight and not eighty.

"There is a family who lives on a farm, but the farm is going to be destroyed because there are bombs falling from the sky! Mr. and Mrs. Schneider have to run away in their truck so they don't get destroyed, too."

Riza smiled at his excitement, feeling it too as she spoke, "Can I play with you? I think I can make a good Mrs. Schneider."

Georgie nodded, eager, "Mrs. Schneider is telling Mr. Schneider to run away, that the bombs are coming." Then he pointed at the assembled woman, and then at the toy pick-up truck. "But his wife runs veeeeery slowly," he dragged on his vowels, "because she hurt her legs while cleaning up the pigpen the other day. And then the plow truck that has more bombs is chasing after her. She is very scared, and she screams loudly, too."

"Fair enough," Riza assented, understanding the role she must play.

Georgie grabbed and placed the woman in her hand, entrusting Riza with her life. Crossing her long legs beside him, Riza straightened her back and produced a high pitched voice with which she imagined Mrs. Schneider would sound like. "Oh no, the bombs are coming! Run away, my husband!"

With his small, fanned out hands on his reddened cheeks, her grandfather shook his head vehemently and instructed her to lower her voice. "Again, again," he repeated, and expounded that Mrs. Schneider was sixty years old, a doddering old woman rather than a young and vivacious landowner Riza had imagined her to be. When complimented about his finely tuned storytelling, Georgie said she was a real person, his parents' next door neighbor when they used to live in a rural farming town called Freiburg.

With horror on her face, Riza gasped, "Were they really bombed?"

Georgie cackled and puffed out his chest, striking it with pride. "I'm a good storyteller. I made that up. Mrs. Schneider is just dandy. _Mutti_ said she still lives there and probably will be for a long time."

Relief in her chest, Riza held her hand above her heart and moved to ruffle Georgie's neat pompadour when he laughed at her. His round glasses slid from his nose, and she took the flimsy eyewear and placed it on Mrs. Schneider's featureless face without much luck, making the boy laugh even harder.

They played until the last ray sank into the earth, the blue of the sky replaced with a canvas of orange-pink streaks. By then, Mrs. Schneider had successfully fled her hometown that perished in aerial bombs and earthquake fire; she had saved all of her pigs and herded them into a newly built pen; and she had been separated from Mr. Schneider only to see each other again at the house that evaded the onslaught, all completely unscathed.

"That was fun, Georgie. We should do it again sometime," Riza gushed.

"It was fun. But it would be even more fun if Al and Ed could play too," he said, his expression taking on a disappointed twinge. "Doc said they need to study though."

"Do you play with other kids, Georgie?"

"I play with the kids who live a block down that way," he pointed towards the house across the street, saying the word 'kids' as though he wasn't one himself. "They're not all my age, but it's still fun and they're still my friends. Do you have a lot of friends your age, Riza?"

And Riza thought of the people she'd squeezed through the cracks of her busy life of perusing and teaching and researching the next gun-toting bad boy. The man she dated off and on, the one she'd stumbled onto when the stillness of her apartment had been too deafening. Her colleagues at the university, who never tired of her obsessive ramblings about her favorite rumrunners. Her meek assistant. Her grandfather's chess buddies.

All at once, she realized she had held more interest in her scholarly pursuits than the entire mass of them combined. Other than her grandfather, she knew little about the people in her life. They certainly had divulged little about themselves too, and Riza, finally, understood their reservations.

"I guess I don't… Not really," she confided.

"Well, do ya miss them?" Georgie asked without looking up.

"No." And this was the one time she had been sure of anything since arriving in 1925.

"That's too bad. I can introduce you to some of my friends," Georgie offered, the slope of his brows sad and sorry. "And I will keep you company if you're lonely."

His naive reassurance filled her heart, and Riza caressed his head in gratitude. "You've always kept me company, Georgie."

With a playful grin, he met her eyes, his gaze glinting in the half-light. "Should we play another game?"

"It's getting dark. We'll play again tomorrow," she smiled regretfully. Tomorrow, and the day after, and the next.

Georgie nodded, his thumb on his chin, like an old man imparting wisdom. "You're right. Doc must be worried if we don't return soon."

The clock chimed six in the evening when they entered the dining room. Alphonse was in the kitchen, his back turned to her, a set of lean muscles working at trimming and cutting up produce. Watching the boy only spread the burn of shame up her neck, his dedication stirring guilt, his effort making her contrite, and Riza rushed to him with a harsh reminder to herself that she needed to take care of the cooking and cleaning, providing what she could instead of whiling away with toy trucks and wooden people.

"I'm going to wash," Georgie informed her. "The hot water here lasts longer than at my house."

The child pranced down to the bathroom, and Riza scurried to Alphonse, greeting him with a repentant smile and her offer of a helping hand. The kitchen and the dining room were one big, open space, a desirable trait many families would pay millions of dollars for where (when) she came from. The range held six burners and faced the wall, and a small rectangular counter sat in the opposite, confronting the dining table studded by six wooden chairs along the four sides.

Alphonse pointed to the brown stew that started to bubble on the stovetop. "I need to thicken the stew. Will you be able to cube the beef, Miss Riza?"

Quietly, she murmured her assent, her hand on the santoku, and her eyes and hearing glued to the scene in the dining room.

Despite the heat from the kitchen, Roy kept his black vest on, though it was only partly buttoned up. The left sleeve of his club collar shirt was rolled up to his elbow while the right reached the middle of his forearm. He looked as if he was ready to settle in for the night but decided, halfway through shedding his attire, that the ball of energy in front of him needed his undivided attention. The doctor's hands were fixed at his hips as he stared the teen down, and his rigid stance made him seem taller than he actually was.

"Page forty-one," Roy demanded, his voice firm. "Read it."

The teen's mouth blew a dramatic gust, as if it had been a pain to follow orders, but he began to read, "'When Abraham Lincoln won the election in 1860-'"

"That's not page forty-one. We've covered that last week."

"Then _you_ read it."

The doctor was clearly irritable, Riza could see it. She didn't know how long he'd been at this, pressing and persevering. The young man, Alphonse's older brother, persisted with his silence, projecting his obstinacy with a spiteful glare and an excessive pout. He was older, but he was shorter than Alphonse in height and temper.

"Turn to page forty-one, Edward. Now. Or we won't finish by the time Alphonse is done cooking."

No one could convince Edward Elric to do anything. He was many things Alphonse was not, hard lines and sharp edges. The thirteen year-old was mulish, rebellious, equipped with a clever mouth that sheathed retorts and ridicule, arguments over amiability. He was not above politeness and propriety, however, and the first time Riza had met him, he had smiled, though slightly, and welcomed her into their home. She could not say if the teen had offered the doctor the same cordial greeting, and Riza realized later that his smile had been a rarity.

In the span of two weeks Riza saw Edward a total of five times. And all of five times were during dinners Roy could not attend, the doctor being called away to his clinic downtown to sort out urgent matters of wellbeing and, other times, of life and death. According to Alphonse, the doctor would sometimes forgo cash payments for cookies and tea, a smile and a childish drawing. Frequently, it was for nothing at all.

Finally, Edward relented and began reading, "'From 1862 to 1865, Robert E. Lee's Army of Northern Virginia staved off invasions and attacks by the Union Army of the Potomac commanded by a series of ineffective generals, until Ulysses S. Grant came to Virginia from the Western theater to become general in chief of all Union armies in 1864.'"

Grabbing another stick of carrot, Riza peeled the skin and sliced, listening to Edward's narration of the American Civil War. It had been easy to immerse herself in history, in the details of wars and their aftermath, in the big names involved who shaped and moulded the country today. History _was_ a story, and a story was something she had always connected with her grandfather.

"Good. Now, summarize what you just read in your own words," Roy said.

Edward paused, and eventually pushed the book away. His pouty lips were back. "You're not a good teacher. I learned absolutely nothing."

Sighing, the doctor placed his palm over his face and dragged it down in frustration. "Look, I'm just trying to help you with your upcoming exam, Edward. And this method of reciting what you just read had always worked for me. Come Monday you'll be prepared."

"Ha-ha, well, I'm not you," he sneered. "I need a _real_ teacher, not a doctor who pretends to be one."

From the kitchen Alphonse lifted his head and spoke, "Miss Riza is a teacher. Mister Fuery told me."

There was a glimmer of surprise in Roy's expression when he faced her. "Are you really?"

"Yes, I'm a teacher," Riza answered, tilting her eyes up from the vegetables on the counter. Suddenly, all heads peered up at her, and she found herself smack dab in the heart of their awkward back and forth.

"What subject do you teach?"

"History."

Roy peeked at Edward and then back at her again, his pursed lips and quiet thoughts billowing his concerns.

"I'd love to go over the Civil War with Edward," Riza asserted. Anything to contribute to the kind family who had taken her in.

"Better her than you," Edward grumbled.

And with that, he had sealed his own fate.

"Alright, great! That's settled then." Roy sniffed before turning to the blond lad, the deep trench between his brows reprimanding. "Edward, from now on she will be your tutor. And you can't say she's not a good teacher. If she can handle a classroom, she can handle you."

"You know who was a good teacher?" Edward scoffed in disgust. He raised a narrow gaze at Roy, stabbing knives with his acute, golden eyes. His words were just as sharp when he spoke it, "My mother."

The exasperation in the doctor's eyes turned somber, reverent, and Riza felt like she had encroached into a secret she hadn't meant to see or hear. Roy didn't move nor speak, and it was perhaps the prolonged silence that made Edward avert his impossibly belligerent gaze, ease the hostility with a riveted stare at his textbook instead.

_What just happened?_

"I'm going to step out for a bit," Roy said, hurriedly, and reached the door before Riza could even blink. "I'll be back in an hour or so. Go on and eat without me."

She made a motion to run after him, but Alphonse placed a hand on her wrist and tugged on it. "It's alright, Miss Riza. Doc does that sometimes. He'll feel much better when he comes back."

From the dark hallway, Georgie emerged and bounded up to her with no knowledge of what had transpired, asking her when dinner would be ready because he'd been starving the entire time they were playing. With her wrist still within his gentle grasp, Alphonse smiled at Georgie, jutting out his chin to steer him towards the dining table. Her grandfather pulled out a seat across from Edward, then Alphonse looked up at her, apologetically, and released his hold.

"Thank you, Miss Riza. I promise my brother isn't as bad as he seems."

Gingerly, she took the place beside Edward, her mind filled with questions, her gaze glued to the dark green leather bound book. She felt Edward's eyes on her, expectant yet cooperative as he slid the textbook towards her carefully.

"I don't want to seem ungrateful, but Doc really is a terrible teacher," Edward reasoned with a breathy voice, offering his peace. This was his way of reassuring he wouldn't give her the same trouble as he did Roy, Riza knew. But she had also traversed the last five years dealing with challenging research teams and uncaring students; there was more to what he was saying than simply the doctor being a terrible teacher.

"That's okay, Edward. I_ am_ a better teacher than Doc," she corroborated with a teasing chuckle. "And we'll make sure you ace your exam on Monday."

Nodding slowly, he sniffled but didn't look up again at her.

She instructed him to flip to the proper page, then she took the book and read passages she thought was most essential. Between the stories of Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis, she outlined the syllabus in her head from today through Sunday, in the order of difficulty, feeling excitement brimming at the thought of teaching again. But she snuck a glance at Edward, whose head was bent down, and saw signs of tears dotting the color of his grey trousers.

* * *

On the next chapter: Her Speculation

But she remained standing with her back turned to him, quiet and unmoving. So still that Roy thought she might not have heard him call her name. Even her breaths seemed to have ceased with her movement.

"Gracia," he repeated.

When she finally turned around, a pair of fearful eyes clashed against his, and she slipped a hand hastily into her pocket. Without warning, she lifted a Colt and pointed it at him, her hands shaking, her entire body vibrating before him.

"I know it was you," Gracia said with trembling lips.


	7. Her Speculation

**Chapter 7: Her Speculation**

"It's time we talk," Roy blurted.

The cool breeze that peeped in through the window did little to alleviate the trapped September heat that speckled his back with sweat. Instinctively, Roy swept an anxious hand through his day-tousled hair, further unruffling his half-slicked strands into a limp mess. The living room was less stimulating after a talkative Alphonse turned in for the night, carrying their light conversations with him and ushering in tension that felt heavier than the dense temperature inside.

Between the doctor and his guest, there was much to discuss. Her foreknowledge had raised his curiosity. And fears. Though it was fears for her rather than for himself. What would happen if someone else had learned of her gift?

"What do you want to talk about?" Riza asked with feigned ignorance, her soft, brown eyes evading his. Then she pressed her lips together, tightly. Roy wanted to sneer at how terrible she was at fibbing.

"I think we've both been avoiding it long enough, Riza," he stated, feeling his sternness mellowing the longer he stared at her.

A sense of clarity had come to him at the clinic, where, for once, the sting of rubbing alcohol was more enlightening than muddling. Knowing the facts would help him protect her. It hadn't come when he had needed it most during the Great War, where he had served as an unlicensed, practicing physician making up for a shortage of doctors. He had healed and tended to his patients with common sense rather than experience. The world had been cloudy the entire time he was there.

The cabriole sofa depressed as Riza brought her legs up, folding them beneath her unsettled body. Her spine rested along the cushioned arm. Roy pushed his back against the kitchen wall and wrapped himself into the seat beside her, creating enough distance between them to provide a semblance of privacy for her to collect her thoughts.

"It's not that I don't want to talk about it. I just don't know… how to… begin..." She was apprehensive, as he suspected. "I'm not even sure I made the right decision by telling you about the shooting," she added mournfully.

"You predicted the future," he hedged, asserting his boldness so he wouldn't waver under her conflicted gaze.

Immediately, she shook her head. "No, no. I didn't predict the future. I've… lived… it..." The end of her sentence lifted in the way that made her sound unsure of herself. But he knew it wasn't a question.

"What do you mean you've _lived_ it?"

"It means… I knew what would happen to Maes... because it had already happened," she said, her reticence drifting in. She curled further into the sofa, swaddling herself with her arms as though it would offer protection, a shy flower shrinking beneath its petals.

"But it hadn't already happened," he argued, facing her dead on.

Her eyes wandered to the floor before rising back up and caressed his face, whispering her confidence, "I studied it all… in 1995."

At this, he could only watch her. Blankly. His mind ran a mile an hour in every direction. "1995?"

"Yes," Riza nodded, relief splashing her voice as though a great, big world had been lifted off of her shoulders. Her gaze steeled, the movement of her lips becoming certain. "I was a teenager fascinated by the past and its struggles."

He moulded his lips to speak, but no words came out. Her past was his present, and her present had not happened. At least for him. The concept of time muddied. It had taken the wind out of his sails.

"It all started when my grandfather told me stories about your family and the things they did," she continued.

Now he was the one who was unsure. He was unsure he wanted to know more than she had already let on. But his mouth answered before his mind could put a stop to his growing wonder and concerns.

"Things? What kind of things?"

"Things about your family. Things about Maes. Like how his father had married your Aunt Chris not long after his mother passed away. How his father had died from a heart attack. How Maes had been conscripted into the war," she prattled. "He had proposed to Gracia in Central Park while they were riding their horses. He spoke Gaelic at home as a child, even when his father had insisted he spoke English. I know things like his textile business, and how it was a front for his bootlegging operations."

"You're not supposed to know about his bootlegging operations. _No one _is supposed to know about it outside of the family."

"No, I suppose not."

"And yet you do," the doctor murmured.

She nodded weakly, slower to acknowledge, as if she was ashamed of knowing things she shouldn't have known.

Gradually, Roy brought his chin up from his chest, gleaning the woman whose expression had turned contemplative. He slid closer until her scent of jasmine tickled his nose. His way of assuring he wasn't doubting her. "Would you mind telling me more? Just... you know... things that had already happened rather than things that haven't."

"Would that make you believe me?" she asked, skeptical.

"You don't think I believed you?" he retorted, sounding more offended than he should.

"It sounds pretty unbelievable. Even to me."

"It does sound unbelievable," he contended, "but I don't think you're lying." He quipped when her face softened, "I think you are a terrible liar."

For the first time since he'd broached the subject, she chuckled. "I've been told I'm a wonderful liar."

"Not to me you're not. I've learned to recognize the lies from the truths," he said with humor. "Are you going to tell me or not?"

And Roy saw victory when she returned a winsome smile.

"Well, I can tell you that I don't know much about you. A few stories, that's all. Only that my grandfather would always remind me that you're a kind and generous man who had done so much for him. He looked up to you, and he became a doctor just like you."

"Your grandfather?"

As if drowned in her own thoughts, Riza rambled on, leaving him to ponder, "I didn't even know about Edward and Alphonse until I met you. They're both great kids. Smart. Wonderful. And they're both lucky to have you."

"They're great kids, although Edward hates my guts," he commented. "But Alphonse doesn't mind me as much. Same with Georgie."

Riza laughed, a gentle lullaby amid the sobriety. "Who are you Roy Mustang? And what have you done to win my grandfather's heart?"

"I'm a doctor, though I wanted to be a king as a child. Like the King of England. I could tell anyone to do anything." She laughed again, and he grinned in return. "On a serious note, my father moved our family to New York when I was six. I missed Ireland, and I was sad for a time—I had a lot of friends there as a child, you see—but he thought I could make a difference here with all the new opportunities."

"But you're not sad anymore?"

"No. My family is here, and I've made a few new friends since," he reassured. "Now, tell me about you, Riza."

Her back wiggled into the cushion, as if scratching off her discomfort, and she began her tale, "I was born in 1971, in a small town an hour away from Chicago. My father's name is Berthold Hawkeye, and my mother Tereza. I moved into my grandfather's home when I turned sixteen after my mother passed away."

Then she let out a half chuckle, the sound woefully fogged with unease. A thin mist liquified her sombre eyes and fluttered her steady lips. Riza Hawkeye was strong, stubborn, made of metals and stones, and seeing her a blink away from crying stirred something inside that had him swearing he'd never let her out of his sight.

"My grandfather's name is Grumman. George Grumman," she revealed.

The pleat between his brows thickened. "George… Grumman?" And Roy repeated the man's name again, quietly, swishing it around his tongue as though it would make it more digestible. And realization hit him. "It's Georgie, isn't it?"

"I know it sounds ridiculous, but it's the truth," Riza sighed. "Georgie moved to Chicago after graduation. At twenty-eight, he married a woman named Ana. My mother was born a year later. We only moved back to Manhattan so I could pursue my studies."

"Does he know?"

"No. And I'm not planning on telling him," she answered solidly, and he could attest to the quiet desperation that coated her unflinching gaze. "If he finds out, he's going to get scared. He's only a little boy."

"I understand."

"What are you thinking, Roy? Please tell me you don't think I'm crazy," she supplicated, nearing him as though it would open her eyes to his misgivings. She was so close he felt her breath on his cheeks.

"Well, if you're crazy, then I suppose I am, too," he smiled ruefully. "How in the world did you get here?"

Her hand abruptly reached for the purse that sat beside her on the floor. Impetuously, she scrambled the contents and held a small item cupped within her palm, the burnished silver gathering the dim-yellow pendant light above them. She slid even closer to him, her head almost resting on his shoulder.

"This ring," she said. "It took me here when I put it on."

The neat slant across the inner circle called out to him, and he plucked it from her hand. "_Ex tempore_," Roy read aloud. "I didn't notice the inscription the first time I held it. It's a beautiful ring, even if it's a little scuffed."

He rotated the band between his fingers, examining it the second time. It didn't exude any strange, magical powers as far as he could see, and he laughed a little, inwardly. But if the jewelry had taken her here, it could certainly take her back. Couldn't it?

"Are you planning on leaving us?" he asked, his reluctance spilling out.

He extended the ring back to her, but Riza only skimmed it, her finger ghosting above his palm as she circled the silver. Her hand immediately retreated when he coiled his, grasping her and the jewelry within his grasp. His unsmiling mouth upturned, and the lingering heat from her touch only exacerbated the weight of her silence.

"Riza?"

"Do you want me to leave?" she muttered.

He considered for a moment, balancing the truth on his lips, feeling the sensation of a light jog beneath the strain of his neck. What would it mean for them if he asked her to stay? What was she giving up if she heeded his answer?

Did he want her to leave?

"No," Roy said sincerely. And he shook his head as though she needed further convincing, as though _he_ needed to convince himself that she wouldn't reject him, even when all the signs seemed to point the other way.

Her smile swelled to a grin, and she took the ring from him in one quick swipe, stuffing it back into her purse. "I might be able to work with that," she teased.

His heartbeat ceased. He asked, his voice disbelieving, "You don't... want to leave?"

She shrugged. "I don't really have anyone waiting for me seventy-five years from now. I suppose I can hang around a bit longer."

The doctor recalled what she had said when they first spoke, that she needed to go home and bury her grandfather. His heart sank at the remembrance. "Georgie...?"

Melancholy reached her big eyes, but a deep sense of gratitude rang in the words she spoke, "Georgie lived to eighty-three. He had friends and family who loved him very much, and I couldn't have hoped for a better life for him. He was happy, and I like to think he didn't have many regrets when he passed."

He could only offer her a wistful smile, "That's good to hear."

"And I'm grateful that you took him on as an apprentice. He grew up to be a fine pediatrician," Riza remarked, light shining back into her countenance as she tipped her head forward, a face full of secrets. "Do you want to hear something?"

He nodded.

"I think my grandfather, unintentionally, made me fall in love with you."

He jerked back at the revelation, at the sudden leap beneath his breastbone. It was pleasant and incessant and so frightfully distracting. Just like the woman in front of him. He hadn't expected that level of honesty.

"I mean, it wasn't like he knew I would ever meet you. You were only supposed to be a character in his stories," Riza began to blabber. "And grandfather _always_ romanticized the characters in his stories, even when they were all real people at one time or another…" But her voice tapered to a whisper and then to silence, and she blocked her embarrassment with her hands, cloaking her face. Roy was sure she would crawl underneath the coffee table when the chance presented itself.

But the pull of her confession was as strong as the desire that rose within him. Falling in love was never his intention either, but he had given in the instant his eyes found hers. Even now, as he realized the century of separation that loomed over as a fearsome and daunting opponent.

He leaned into her, removing her hands from her face, and whispered, "Am I as good as the doctor in his stories?"

Her cheeks had flushed, and she opened one eye as she mumbled, "You're better."

Suddenly, the cling of their gazes filled the precarious air between them, painting insecurity with confidence, rendering time frozen and immovable. It was harder for him to hold back at this distance, and he surrendered to the impulse to touch her, to trace her astonishment under his fingertips.

And he did.

His heart galloped in his chest. Gently, he pushed aside a stray golden lock to uncover an ardent reflection that matched his own. When his thumb drifted across her cheek, softer than he'd imagined, her breath stilled and Riza leaned in ever closer, asking for more.

More._ More._

"What would you do if I...?"

She understood what he was asking as if she had known him for years, as if her grandfather's stories had filled in the time in which they'd been strangers. His vision dawdled at her lips, and she closed her eyes, prodding his heart with reckless wonder. Roy ventured forward, soaking up courage, ignoring the perspiration that began to pool on the palm of his hand.

And the marvels of her lips would have been against his had they not been yanked apart by the abrupt knock on the door. But the magic was slow to dissipate, and Roy brushed a kiss on her forehead when she sighed in defeat, taking his sweet time before pulling away. He smiled down into her face.

"Stay, Riza. I want you to stay."

He had meant it. He didn't want her to leave.

The knock called again, impatient, and the doctor begrudgingly slipped to the door.

A woman with an enormous fur coat wreathed around her neck stood at the bottom step of his porch, the twiggy shadows of the magnolia tree eclipsing her fine, sandy hair. Her stiff back rose up and down, up and down, like she couldn't get enough oxygen into her lungs. Roy couldn't see her face, but there was no mistaking it was his sister-in-law.

"Gracia?"

But she remained standing with her back turned to him, quiet and unmoving. So still that Roy thought she might not have heard him call her name. Even her breaths seemed to have ceased with her movement.

"Gracia," he repeated.

When she finally turned around, a pair of fearful eyes clashed against his, and she slipped a hand hastily into her pocket. Without warning, she lifted a Colt and pointed it at him, her hands shaking, her entire body vibrating before him.

"I know it was you," Gracia said with trembling lips. "_You_ turned him in."

She pressed forward.

With prudence, Roy raised his hands in surrender, backing away slowly until his back hit the edge of the staircase. He sidestepped, an inch, two inches, and opined, "Gracia, I haven't got a clue what you're talking about."

"The detectives took him away, said Maes had a hand in the incident at the Endicott."

Behind him, he heard a rustle of footfalls and a feeble gasp.

Riza.

"But he was shot. That doesn't make any sense," Riza elucidated, her voice breathy, as though she had lost it to the incredulity of the scene that was steadily unfolding. "Did they finish the investigation?"

"Yes… No! I don't… I don't know. It all happened so fast," Gracia said, her grip on her weapon as capricious as her answer, but her gait was resolute as she shuffled forward.

The foyer sconces bounced against her ashen complexion, and the streaks of tears that had been buried in the shades now glistened in the glow. With dragging steps, she crossed further into the living room, unbothered by the open door and letting a gust of wind nip at her neatly combed hair. She stopped then, trapping him between the muzzle of her gun and a paneled wall.

In distress, his nails slashed into his palm in a pricking sensation, and Roy hoped and begged and prayed that she would come to her senses. "Please put the gun down, Gracia. Let's talk about this," he persuaded, pausing in his stride.

"So you did turn him in!" the woman accused.

"No! I didn't. Tell me one reason why I would do such a thing." It was difficult to keep calm with her pistol trained at him, threatening to blow with a single misstep.

To his right, Riza approached his sister-in-law, one cautious step at a time. He felt Riza's eyes flying between them, him and her and back again, assessing the situation. But when she had just covered enough distance for any attempts at her firearm, Gracia warned her to remain where she was unless she wanted Roy dead.

"I know you disapprove of a lot of the things he does," Gracia continued. "You're ashamed to be a part of this family."

"Disapproving doesn't mean I wish to get him into trouble. And I am not ashamed. If I were, I wouldn't be anywhere near you and Maes."

Her affront only distended, and she lunged forward and struck his temple with the butt of her gun. The doctor stooped to the ground, one leg bracing him up, as he felt sting and burn at the side of his head. Liquid warmth began to trickle down the line of his jaw.

"Please, Gracia. There's no need to resort to violence," Riza begged, her hands in front of her like a shield. "Think about it. Roy wouldn't do that to Maes."

At Riza's persistence, Gracia began aiming her weapon left and right, at him and then at Riza. Her mascara-stained cheeks flared crimson.

"Don't move! And don't you dare lie," she warned again. Then she turned to Roy and stared him down, confronting him with tears that began to rim the corner of her eyes, finding purchase on the dark silk of her dress.

"I don't know who the mole is, Gracia. Maes mentioned the possibility that it could be someone from the factory, but I never asked again," Roy offered, giving her something, _anything_. He had the boys to worry about, and it wouldn't do to have them scuttling around in the streets again, orphaned and without a place to live.

She cocked the weapon.

"Wait!" Riza's shout broke through the air, loud enough it could wake the children upstairs. She quickly composed herself, however, reasoning with the woman as she inched carefully towards her, "Gracia, I can find out who it is. I can help you."

"How?"

"I can…" Riza trailed. Roy could see the cogs in her brain cranking, searching for a solution. "I can work for Maes. I can work for Maes and find out who did it," she finally suggested.

Gracia's brows furrowed, her burgundy lips clamped between her teeth as she sailed between decisions.

"I'll keep track of everyone—_every movement_—and I'll report back to you. Every night," Riza added, sweetening the deal.

The seconds felt like an eternity, but Gracia, at last, dropped her quaking arm, lowering the barrel to a safe spot on the ground. Exercising caution, Riza traipsed behind the woman and snatched the gun away, removing the magazine and racking the slide, ejecting the chambered round in one smooth motion as though she'd gone through military training as he did during the war. Then she steered Gracia to the sofa, who began to sob with regrets and apologies.

The damp summer air smelled fresh and freeing when Roy released his pent up breath. The cut above his left ear still thudded, spinning his vision when he stood up, but Riza raced to his side and threw an arm around his waist to moor his wobbly stance. He winced and felt blood when he thumbed at his temple. Everything around him seemed a little hazy, but he had heard Riza, plain as day, and the foolish idea she had suggested.

"I don't like that idea," Roy proclaimed through a wince. Riza's grip tightened when he tried to right himself, surely afraid he'd tumble back down without her holding him up, but he just shook his head and pinned her with a glare. "If Maes were apprehended by detectives, it means they will return. They're going to look through his records, search his office, and then they will question his employees. Including you."

"I'll be fine," Riza deflected with her eyes averted, leading him to a nearby chair. "There's no records of me anywhere, and I'll keep my head down."

"Why?"

She lifted her gaze, demure and brief, but when her response finally settled around him, it took his breath away once more.

"Because I want to stay here with you."

* * *

On the next chapter: Hughes-Mustang Company Ltd.

Surprised, Riza exclaimed, "Rebecca! What are you doing here?"

The brunette bent down to her sitting height and whispered enthusiastically, "I'm here to visit Jean. Not sure if you've paid any attention to him, but he's quite a sheik!"

"Oh."

Tapping her red-painted fingernails on the wooden desk, one hand on her hip, Rebecca asked, "So, Riza, when did you start working for Maes Hughes?"


	8. Hughes-Mustang Company Ltd

A/N: Happy (belated) birthday, **waddiwasiwitch**! This chapter was written with you in mind, strong women and badassery. I know you love that, and as do I :).

On another note, coronavirus is going strong. Stay safe, everyone.

To the Guest review on the last chapter: Thank you so much for your kind words! Just like you, I love a good dose of fatherly Roy and a handful Elric boys, haha. I'm very happy you've enjoyed it so far!

* * *

**Chapter 8: Hughes-Mustang Company Ltd.**

Jean Havoc was nice. A man generous with his time and patience. And if there was malice behind those vivid blue eyes, then he definitely fooled her.

His appearance reminded Riza of the college quarterback her senior year. At least six feet tall and well-muscled in the appropriate places, Jean's side crop was so pale it looked almost white under the sun. But unlike the predatory Chad, Jean's attractive features were tempered by a friendly, if a little awkward, demeanor that eased her into the role of a colleague rather than a female prey. There were times Jean tried to be charming, complimenting her hair and her dress, but Riza felt it was delivered with good intentions and that it came from the heart.

The young office manager grew up in Brooklyn with a younger sister who he claimed bore an uncanny resemblance to himself, save for her larger breasts and slimmer legs, a head shorter in height but not in intelligence. He was a hard worker and wasn't especially chatty unless prompted or provoked, citing his short yet perilous time in the frontline of the Great War as his reason for always staying on his feet and getting things done. If there was something the man despised, it was waiting around for something to happen.

"I was in the right place and at the right time," Jean had said once, "and I got to return home while many of my friends were left behind in France."

He had rectified with a quip when her face took on a crestfallen shade, stating that his family had come from France and that his first time setting foot on his motherland was thanks to some rich man's assassination he could care less about. At that, Riza had smiled weakly and held her twined fingers on the cradle of her lap. Not because he wasn't funny, but because his words had leapt at her like a crash of tidal wave, engulfing her in a new perspective of life and death, of fates and coincidences. Riza wondered then if she had been in the right place and at the right time, a second chance given to a forlorn woman whose grief had been inconsolable.

"Are you done with those?" Jean asked. The Brooklyn in his baritone was strong, rough, as he strolled out of Maes Hughes' office with an armful of documents, his forearm visibly flexing with the sleeves cinched at his elbows.

"I'm done, sir."

The office manager chuckled at the appellation. "What did I tell you? Just Jean is fine. Now, do you have any experience with the typewriter?"

He laid several handwritten pieces in front of her from the collection he held under his arm. She skimmed one of the papers. The typewriter wouldn't be as difficult to decipher as the scratch and slope that filled the papers like scribbles of a doctor's note.

"I can type," Riza reassured him.

"They're pretty short. Shouldn't take you too long," he remarked.

"Is there anything else I can help with once I'm done with these?"

Surreptitiously, Jean darted a glance around the bustling room before stooping down towards her. His fair cheeks took on a livelier shade, and his voice was low when he spoke, "Yes, actually. I've been wanting to ask you about your friend. The brunette...?"

"The brunette...?" she repeated softly.

His head bent even lower, eyes darting once again, and he whispered, "Denny said she's your friend. Wavy hair, long legs, nice smile? Pretty?"

"Oh." It suddenly clicked. "You mean Rebecca. Right?" she beamed.

Jean shushed her instantly, but went on to right his posture and flash his straight pearly teeth, his smile looking all too pleased. "So _that'_s her name."

And Riza couldn't help but laugh. "You could've just asked me her name, you know. I'm sure she wouldn't mind. Now tell me, what else do you have for me, Jean?"

He grinned unabashedly and flicked a thumb at what looked like a mound of receipts sitting at the corner of a long metal cabinet across from hers. "Alright, Riza. Those need filing before the end of the day."

She smiled. "I'll get them all done before I leave."

"Thank you. I'll take these then," he nodded, grabbing the neatly piled reports atop her desk. "Let me know if you need anything."

As he carried her handwritten reports to the basement, Riza watched and considered if there was a darker, sinister side to Jean Havoc. Then she thought about her oddly slanted cursive that had the head of acquisition howling with frustration. It had been months since she'd had to press a pen to a paper, let alone carbon copied five pages worth of business letters. But Jean had defended her, smoothing out all wrinkles with the red-faced man, giving reason of a broken finger she still nursed and that it was his fault for assigning the task to her in the first place.

Jean Havoc was nice. Truly. And for that matter, so was Denny Brosh.

There was nothing suspicious about Denny Brosh. He gave off the air of someone who had surrendered life to complete mediocrity, content and laidback, and as factory manager, he was the boss everybody would rather have. The man would not have caught a snoring milliner if he looked hard enough. And if Riza had to bet, the man was most definitely not a master spy hiding within the cold confines of brick walls and fluorescent strip lights.

Much like her secretarial experience, Riza's capacity for espionage was heavily reliant on instinct. That, and the insatiable craving for uncovering a mole that had escaped her literary collections and research papers. Details had always been difficult to recall, but the ones she did remember were like puzzles from a different board, misplaced and not quite interlocking with the rest of the picture. There were no Denny Broshes, Maria Rosses, or Jean Havocs in her cache. Instead, it was Peg Leg Lonergan's death the day after Christmas that stuck out like the brightest piece among the disjointed fragments of mafias and gangsters and crooked cops.

Her forefinger hit the letter 'M' with more pressure than necessary. _My dear Mr. Burroughs-_

"Hey, you got lunch today, Ri?"

At the interruption, she looked up to see Maria Ross hovering over her desk with a crinkled brown bag clutched to her chest, Ross' Famous Deli scribbled across the middle. Her family ran a successful delicatessen that always beckoned a line out the door an hour before they opened, the fragrance of fresh bread day in and day out strangely therapeutic as she passed by every morning.

Tough and outspoken, it was Maria's defiant streak and her well-earned degree from St. John's University that landed her the position of junior accountant at Hughes-Mustang Company Ltd. When asked about her family's business, the woman had laughed, derisively, and said she had absolutely no intention of becoming a "bespoke sandwich maker" like her father, mother, and her grandparents before them.

"I don't have lunch," Riza replied. "I was going to drop off some files to Denny and then stop by the deli for something quick."

"A-ha! I knew it, so I packed extra," Maria winked beneath her straight bob, a playful mien that reminded Riza of a young Elizabeth Taylor, with a beauty mark under her left eye. "Eat first. Work will still be here when you get back. And it's turkey reuben today; your favorite."

In the last seven days since Riza began her stint at the textile manufacturer, Maria Ross had been at her heels like a dog on a leash. It could very well be her, Riza had thought at first. She was smart and competent and could efficiently churn accounting entries upon accounting entries into a few sentences that made a whole lot of sense to someone who disliked numbers.

But sweet Maria with her pleasant smiles and surprise sandwiches hardly seemed like someone with murderous intents and aspirations for getting her employer into trouble. Besides, the kind of information Maria had volunteered about herself was far too intimate for someone who _shouldn't_ be so keen about sharing much at all. Still, Riza hung onto all wits and sensibilities as she tiptoed through their friendly conversations and warm exchanges.

As Riza tidied up her desk, someone slammed a hand onto the wooden flat. It startled her, and her eyes shot up to the perpetrator, all fuchsia lips and shiny dark curls.

"Riza!" the woman shrieked.

Surprised, Riza exclaimed, "Rebecca! What are you doing here?"

The brunette bent down to her sitting height and whispered enthusiastically, her eyes wandering, "I'm here to visit Jean. Not my first visit, nor will it be my last. Not sure if you've paid any attention to him, but he's quite a sheik!"

"Oh." How funny.

Beside her, Maria rolled a deprecating eye, as though Rebecca's sudden appearance had somehow made worse of her day. But Rebecca ignored her colleague, choosing to perch herself on her desk as though she was Gracia Hughes and was exempt from all office impropriety. Rebecca leaned forward, smiling, obstructing Riza's view of everything else but her.

Tapping her red-painted fingernails on the wooden desk, one hand on her hip, Rebecca asked, "So, Riza, when did you start working for Maes Hughes?"

"About a week ago," Maria answered for her, suspending her lunch bag in the air. "And I was just asking her to go to lunch with me."

"Ah. Can't live off of the good doctor anymore?" Rebecca asked, guileless, turning her focus back to Riza.

"I need my own money. I never intended to live off of the doctor," Riza said. It was true.

"I can understand that," Rebecca nodded. "That's why I'm forever grateful for Chris, God rest her soul. Without her, I'd still be working for that fuckin' egg."

"Why would you say that?" Riza asked, her brows taut.

"Why would I say what?"

"Why would you say, 'God rest her soul'?" she clarified.

Remarkably, Maria's expression turned to one of shock, doused with uncertainty and something dreary. It was not what Riza had expected. The two women exchanged a peculiar look with each other, swelling the air with suspense that muffled the discordant sounds of clacking typewriters and ringing phones that had been blaring just a few seconds ago.

"Rebecca?" Riza asked again, pressing urgency.

"You were there, Riza," Rebecca said, her voice low and her eyes lower, glued to her desk before tilting up into hers once more. "Chris was shot. You and I were there."

Her skin started to tingle, panic rising to the tips of her blonde hair. "_What?_"

Maria placed the bag of sandwiches on her desk and sprinted to the records room behind Chris's private office as if her life depended on it. She returned no more than a couple of minutes later with a fold of newspaper in her tight grip, and stuck out the prints to her with more than a downhearted gaze and a gloomy disposition.

"Read the headline news."

**Brooklyn Eagle**

New York City, Wednesday, August 19, 1925

_**Eleven Dead in Ambush!**_

_**Manhattan**__—On Tuesday, Aug. 18, 1925, peals of gunfire by a group of unknown attackers broke out at the luxury hotel on Columbus Avenue that sits between 81st and 82nd Street. A local business owner who wishes to remain anonymous had called in from a payphone across the establishment. Frantically, he had screamed, notifying law enforcement of the ambush that resulted in the tragic death of eleven people, including Christine Hughes-Mustang, a dark-eyed portly woman who turned 50 years old that very same day and stepmother of Maes Hughes of the Hughes-Mustang Company, Ltd._

_The incident began after Maes Hughes had given his speech. No more than a half hour later, a group of men charged into the classy Endicott Hotel, riddling bullets into the large decorative vase at the center of the room and taking down civilians and guards along with it. An eyewitness claimed that Christine Hughes-Mustang threw herself in front of her stepson, protecting the textile magnate and philanthropist until the last of her dying breath. Her body slumped, but his was saved._

_Maes Hughes survived the affair with a gunshot wound to his right leg while her body, along with many others, splayed across the Palm Room similar to the grievous scene from the Herrin massacre three years prior._

A grainy black-and-white photograph of the incident was plastered front and center, leaving little for the imagination. Riza gulped, and it took every ounce of her willpower to study the outlines of bodies, mangled and black, splattered across the once sparkling and opulent ballroom. It was impossible to identify Aunt Chris, but it was easy to identify the article. And it was the same article Riza had come across seventy years into the future.

Except nothing had changed.

Gasping for breath, Riza croaked, "But… how?" _How could she be dead when she was alive?_

"It's unfortunate, really," Rebecca said, her gaze reflecting the despair in her tone. "Chris was so kind to me, like a second mother, in the short time I've known her. And if I had known this would happen, I would have stayed around and watched for her. But I panicked when the shooting started, and all I could think about was getting out of there!"

And Riza could only nod when a vision of that particular night began to tease and taunt around what she knew to be the truth. There had to be an explanation. But first, she needed to compose herself. Putting a hand over her friend's, Riza pacified, "It's not your fault, Rebecca. I was there, too, and I could have helped her."

"There won't be a funeral either," Maria fretted. "I heard the detectives in charge of this investigation wouldn't give her body back to the family. Sounds terribly unfair, if you ask me."

"Did Gracia confirm this?" Riza asked.

Rebecca answered, "She did, or I wouldn't have believed it. Chris seemed like someone who would live for a very, _very_ long time. Not someone who would have a bullet through her face."

"Hmm, then it must be true," Riza conceded, shaking her head while her brain tossed for the play by play of that night when doubts started creeping in.

_Did Roy not get her out in time?_

_Why didn't he say anything to her?_

After lunch, work began slowing down, which was both a relief and an affliction. In that time, Riza snuck into the records room, a deceptively enormous space that could host a fully functional bathroom, and perused the towers of newspapers that began collecting four-week old dust. She searched for signs and clues that suggested Chris was alive and walking, convincing herself that the Brooklyn Eagle article was just a bad batch in the bunch. Rebecca and Maria had been so sure Chris was dead. Even Gracia had confirmed it.

There _had_ to be an explanation.

One hour later, Riza was left with no answers but a pounding headache that shook her understanding of the past, present, and future. Did she get it all wrong this whole time? Three other articles were strewn about her, dappled by daylights that had gradually turned to evening shadows, darkness crawling in through the tiny cracks in the window blinds.

All three articles mentioned similar stories. One called out in big bold texts, hailing Christine Hughes-Mustang a hero, affirmed with a photo of the stepson she had willingly given her life to, as if the accompaniment would make her death more real and irrefutable. The other called it a tragedy. And the last called it inevitable. But all three articles stated that Chris had died that night at The Endicott Hotel, and the immensity of that fact percolated through her and steadily scraped her confidence until she was weak in the legs.

Riza left the records room perturbed and worn out, with a heart heavier than when she first came across Rebecca's announcement of Chris's death. With the remainder of her rationality, she battled rising emotions, the confusion that grew and snared, and the evidence that seemed tricky to dispute. The last remaining task that Jean gave her sat untouched, and she briefly considered asking the office manager for an extension. Denny Brosh. Maria Ross. Jean Havoc. All she had to do was spy for Gracia. A weekly report shouldn't have mattered at all.

And still, she held onto the belief that Chris Mustang was alive.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and the hustle-and-bustle of the office had thawed into a peaceful brook. Wrapped in her fur stole, the mobster's wife marched into the building, brisk and impatient. It was as if she would rather be anywhere else but here, wanting to avoid the one place that reminded her of her husband and the moment his luck ran out with the authority.

There were two sides to Gracia Hughes. One she paraded to the public and all through history, and one she kept close to her chest and only allowed loose with the people she trusted. Most days she donned the act of a dainty, loving housewife, staying out of her husband's affairs and merely stepping in to reassert his benevolent image. Other times she'd let slip this mask, carving a tougher, more resilient character who extended beyond the role of a devoted partner and steadfast companion. Gracia Hughes knew what she wanted for herself and her family, and she'd descend to hell and back and return with a charmed three-headed dog and the underworld king bowed at her feet.

She strode towards Maes's office, her mary jane click-clacking underfoot. Pulling off her gloves, Gracia spoke with an insouciant air that successfully camouflaged the rigidness in her spine, "Riza, how was Woodside this morning?"

Woodside was her code for the situation at the office.

"Not as quiet as usual. In fact, it was very noisy," Riza answered, attempting to mirror the same nonchalance.

The flick of Gracia's sea-green gaze was full of comprehension, and Riza caught it and followed after the woman into the inner office, her steps measured, even when her head was spinning with thoughts of Roy's all-knowing foster mother.

Inside, the air was chalky and stifling, eliciting a dry cough that further scratched her already parched throat. The bureau detectives had turned the room upside down the previous week, digging for pieces of evidence that apparently also unearthed a good deal of dust particles with every toss and turn. Gracia didn't bother making small conversations. Immediately, she flung her luxury handbag onto the vacant settee and confronted Riza, her mouth thin and the slit of her eyes thinner.

"Tell me what happened."

"It's not about anybody at the office. It's about what's on the paper," Riza said, countering with the newsprint in her hand. Her index finger tapped the headline. "It says here Chris is dead."

Curtly, Gracia looked at the paper and then back at her, barely giving it a glance, as if it wasn't worth her time. "And?"

"And she's not dead," Riza insisted.

The matriarch brought her arms to her chest, coiling it in front of her. She kept her silence like a defensive screen.

"I saw her walk out of the Rose Room alive. Roy also didn't say anything, and he would have," Riza reasoned.

Gracia challenged with contempt, "You think Roy would tell you everything? He doesn't know you, and you certainly don't know him."

Riza shook her head. "Nevermind that. But it _was_ the Rose Room, wasn't it? We were _at_ the Rose Room. Why did the article say it was the Palm Room?"

"It says the Palm Room because the record shows it was at the Palm Room," Gracia offered earnestly, surprising her. The expectant mother rounded the desk to retrieve a small bottle of whiskey from the locked, bottom drawer. Clearly, the detectives had missed it when they chucked the place. Gracia poured a finger, two-finger, as she talked, "Maes told you it was changed at the last minute, didn't he? The hotel registry was never updated."

"So you're saying it was an honest mistake?"

Lifting the glass to her lips, she considered Riza for a second before affirming. "Yes."

"And Chris?"

"She's dead," Gracia asserted, the veracity of her claim sounding as empty as the article in her hand.

Riza hardened her stare at the woman, saying nothing, stretching her stony silence with a surety that Gracia would wither under her spell. The deception was unnecessary, and it only fed oil to the fire that kept Riza seething and irritable.

Eventually, Gracia capitulated, her countenance wilting with the renounced sigh that followed and the discarding of the alcohol in her hand. "It's the same, alright? It was _all_ an honest mistake. They thought the widow Mrs. Gray was Chris. Similar height and weight, same dark features all around. She was standing in front of Maes when she was shot."

"And they never bothered to check with you or Maes?" Riza pried, disbelieving.

"They did. In a way. They came to us with condolences and sympathy... and we told them, 'thank you'." Gracia halted for a moment, regarding Riza with a valiant gaze that seemed to declare her conviction to protecting her husband and the decisions they both made. "Maes had every intention of keeping his promise to Roy; he _is_ keeping Aunt Chris safe. And this oversight by those goofs just made it all the more convenient. You should know I care about her, too."

"Where is Aunt Chris now?"

The purse of Gracia's mouth tightened. "That is none of your business." And she took a few purposeful strides and wedged herself between Riza and Maes' empty desk, a fleeting hand going to her burgeoning belly before dropping it back down. "You know what's been on my mind?"

"About Chris?"

"How the hell do you know how to handle a firearm?"

Her question felt a lot like an accusation, but Riza steeled herself and replied goodnaturedly, "Just a hobby. My grandfather insisted I learn to protect myself and taught me after he took me in. We used to go to the range every month before he fell sick."

"A strange woman with a strange hobby," Gracia returned impassively.

And Riza didn't know if she was more offended or bemused by her comment. "It's been a while since I've held one, but Kain was nice enough to give me some pointers with the Colt, which is the same gun you have."

"I didn't realize the child knows as much as how to hold a gun. But I suppose he does work for Maes, and Maes likes him enough to take him to his, uh, less than glamorous job sites."

"And speaking of working for Maes," Riza opened, a nagging in her mind that had been set aside suddenly resurfaced, "how long has Maria been working here?"

"Seven. Eight months, maybe," she supplied, and a shadowy cast eclipsed her already distrustful gaze. "Is she…?"

"No. I haven't seen her do anything suspicious," Riza asserted. "It's just that, earlier when we were talking about Chris and what happened at The Endicott, I thought something felt... off."

"What felt off?"

She nipped the edge of her lip. "I don't know, but it was niggling at the back of my mind. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe I'm just thinking too much."

Gracia appraised her for a long while, and finally said, "Well, I hope you figure out what that is. You promised you would help Maes..."

Riza peered down at her and nodded, closing in on the woman who began to tremble at the mention of her husband. Putting a reassuring hand on her arm, she pledged, "I know, Gracia. I promised I would keep him safe."

* * *

On the next chapter: The Straight and Narrow

She was right. They were on the same side. But for the detective with a stern face and a taut bun, Roy knew it was all about the job at hand. Clean the streets and put the perpetrators behind bars, feelings and consequences be damned.

"Come on, Doctor Mustang. There must be something you can give me," she pressed again.

"As I have told you repeatedly, I am not involved in the businesses my brother runs. I don't know anything."

Olivier hummed and coiled a calculating smile then. The air around him suddenly felt cold. Tense. His heart began to quiver, his grip on his pen slick with sweat. "Would it change your mind, Doctor, if I tell you I can order my agents to take his pretty secretary in for questioning?"


	9. The Straight and Narrow

A/N: To the Guest review on the last chapter: Thank you so much for your review! I'm glad you were able to enjoy this story during these crazy times! And you know what, you get your wish ;). You'll find out what I mean soon enough :).

Stay safe, everyone!

* * *

**Chapter 9: The Straight and Narrow**

"Would you marry her, Doctor?"

His brows rose in surprise, and for a second Roy thought he hadn't heard her properly. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Steadily, his hand perused the rows of liniments and cough syrups arranged in the medicine cabinet, searching, though his head had suddenly become preoccupied with a particular blonde. The doctor had received food offerings, a singing performance and everything else in between, but this was the first time he had been presented with a marriage proposal.

"You have always helped me, Doctor, and I know treatment isn't cheap. I don't have much to offer monetarily but I have my daughter," Mrs. Murphy said as she fastened the top two buttons of her house dress. She gestured for him with an enthusiastic hand, as if calling to a child. "Here, come, I have a photo of her. Take a look."

In the faded sepia the girl looked barely out of school, if she went to school at all. Light hair and pale faced like her mother, she was dainty, with her hair twisted into a low bun at her nape. But the shadows around her black eyes and protruding cheekbones made her look too thin and gaunt, as if there hadn't been enough food to pass around the dining table.

"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Murphy, but who will take care of you then?" the doctor replied, extending a bottle of cough syrup to her.

But Mrs. Murphy trudged onward with her proposal, ignoring the drug that would relieve her ailment and preferring to engage in the topic of tying the knot. "Oh, don't you worry about this old woman, Doctor." The woman went on and on about the importance of a wife, and Roy took the liberty and tucked the bottle into her apron pocket, which she mindlessly acknowledged with a pat.

"I'm sure my daughter could take care of you. We named her Greta, like Greta Garbo, so she would become just as beautiful and successful as the actress." The mother stared at the crinkled photo wilting in her hand, fondly, a small smile lining her wrinkled mouth. "All she has going for her is cooking and baking inside that little head, but she _is_ slim and pretty. Isn't she?"

"She is, Mrs. Murphy," Roy reassured. "Don't forget to take your meds twice a day."

Her feet slid off the examination table, and she smoothed the rumples of her skirt as she waddled to the chair where her linen bag sat, the threading coming out at the seams. "And before I forget, Mary from the bakery gave me a few loaves of bread this morning." She held it up to him. "For you, Doctor."

The fragrance of baked bread had been wafting across the room the whole time he'd examined her. When she had been here last, it was a pan of meatloaf. Before that it was a pot of grits. Gratefully, he had refused them. He'd refuse this one, too, if only because her family seemed to need it more than he did.

"I appreciate it, Mrs. Murphy, but there's no need. Please share them with your family."

"Then won't you consider her? My Greta?"

Roy was impressed with her persistence. "I think Greta's job right now is to make sure that _you_ are fully recovered, ma'am."

"You are at the perfect age to marry, Doctor. Don't wait until you're far too old. I had my Greta when I was thirty-five. I couldn't carry her around for too long, and she was a small baby!"

He smiled in response, but his mind began to wander with thoughts of Riza rather than Greta and the nameless, precarious relationship they shared. Was Riza _his_ anything? There hadn't been nearly enough time to settle the budding affections between them, romance shoved aside for fresher plights, of Gracia and Maes and their family's predicament.

Two knocks on the door and the hinge whined in motion. His young, dark-haired nurse peered in with an inquiring gaze. "Doctor Mustang, there is a Miss Hawkeye here to see you."

Such uncanny timing.

"Thank you, Nurse Yao." He turned to his patient, and asked, "Will you be alright getting home by yourself, Mrs. Murphy?"

His concerns were waved off like mere flies, and Mrs. Murphy reiterated her proposal as she exited the room, stating that it would be there when he was ready to have a family. At this, Roy crowed to the unyielding woman, reminding her of her appointment to see him again in two weeks' time; he hoped she'd capitulate by then. Thankfully, she did not linger for another word and left just as Riza crossed into the threshold.

With a small brown bag in her hand, Ross' deli printed across it, Riza entered his office with a little nod and a demure smile. She had never visited before, and as Roy tidied up his medical kit she set the sandwich on his desk and began sailing lazily across the random decor he had thrown here and there to make the space more cozy and comfortable—drawings gifted by his younger patients, hand painted vases from richer patients without any flowers in them; he hadn't been able to replace them fast enough when they withered.

He found her admiring a penciled drawing of a cow-patterned dog and a red-bricked country house laid across high grass, colored in three different shades of green. Her hands were clasped at her back like an art connoisseur as she drifted across the picture. He moved towards her, and Riza twirled and lifted her attention from the sketch to him, her gaze carefully drifting to his mouth.

"I've always wanted a dog," she commented.

"My family adopted a few mutts when we first moved here. I'd always make it a point to wake up as early as four o'clock in the morning just so I'd have at least an hour to play with them."

"What were their names?"

"Georgie, Tommy, Abe, and Teddy."

"Were they supposed to be named after the U.S. Presidents?" she asked incredulously.

His shoulders lifted in a shrug, but he chuckled, "It helped me with memorizing their names. For school."

"Right." She smiled with her brows drawn together. She did not believe him in the slightest. "Ed said he likes dogs."

"Did he? His brother loves cats."

"Really? Then should we get a dog _and_ a cat?"

"Perhaps." His nod was a little too eager when she beamed in excitement, and he softened his grin, bringing an air of sensibility back into the fold. "Well, if the children can promise to take care of them, that is."

Riza hummed to herself, marveling over the childish drawing again, then drew her observation onto another, stick figures of a family of three hand-in-hand beneath an apple tree. Roy knew she wasn't there to criticize his inner decorator.

He asked, "Why are you here, Riza?"

Her face contorted into a faint grimace that made Roy wish he hadn't asked. Still, he needed to know.

"I wanted to talk to you about your brother," she began, extricating herself from the spot beside him. "About the people in his office, Aunt Chris, and the thing with the newspaper. Who else knows about what happened to her beside us?"

Roy slogged woodenly and leaned against the edge of his desk, proceeding to sweep fidgety fingers through untamed strands. "As far as I know, no one else. Not even Chris' girls. I wish I could see her too, but Gracia wouldn't even tell me where she is. But I trust Maes to do the right thing."

Most days it was difficult to see the benefit of her absence. But trust was something that had been carved and polished between the doctor and his brother, cemented by years of shared pains and promises fulfilled. Nothing could take it away, even when Maes' constant presence had been diminished to naught in recent times.

"I'm also worried for Gracia," Riza confessed. "She's always so put together, but I know she constantly thinks about Maes and Chris."

A curtain of dread fell over instantly, and Roy fluttered a timorous gaze up at Riza. "Are they… Will they be alright?" It was something he shouldn't have asked. He had no privilege to their future.

Riza coiled herself into the corner where a painting of swirly black masses darkened the room, _The Starry Night _in monochrome, a masterpiece by a child of ten befitting of their situation. She pinched the bridge of her nose, her head shaking dejectedly. "I don't know."

For a moment Roy was caught between relief and distress, the two emotions warring with each other as she revealed nothing and he worried still.

She heaved for breath and sighed, "I've studied photographs of Chris, Maes and Gracia. Even Heymans. Everyone is so clear in my mind that it sometimes feels like I was destined to memorize these faces just so I'd be prepared for when I finally meet them.

"But there were times when I thought I recognized someone and I just couldn't be sure. My head would draw up a blank, and I can't shake off this feeling that _this_ is the missing piece."

Silence reined him in as he pondered and reflected. Then he whispered, "I'm not sure what to say..."

Her frustration sunk its gnarly teeth into the tender gulf that separated them even further. He couldn't understand what she was going through. He didn't think anyone could. But he pushed himself off the ledge and walked towards her. Taking her hand, he wove his fingers into hers and clasped them in lamentation. His undivided attention was the only thing he could offer her.

"I'm sorry, Riza. You can talk to me about it. Anything that's on your mind."

"If there's one thing I learned, it's that whatever I do, nothing will change," she warned.

Roy nodded. "I know." Once or twice he had mulled over the flow of time, and it had only left his head hurting and his heart thumping. He had stopped thinking about it since. "I will never blame you for anything that's meant to happen," he promised. "And I _want_ to help you, but I don't know how."

Resignedly, she pushed herself against the wall, releasing his hand. "Understandable. I didn't mean to take so much of your time, Roy. I'm sorry. See you tonight?"

He could already feel her loss as she gathered her purse, lugging a heavy gait to the door.

And he called out to her. "Wait, Riza."

Like the pull of the tide, Roy was drawn to her side naturally, strongly, without so much as a hint of reassurance. He refused to leave her like that. Her expression of gloom unraveled into one of anticipation as he approached, and beneath the tense muscles of his stomach he could feel anxiety and excitement and fear of rejection rampaging into a maelstrom. His hand slid into her hair, and he saw how the tight knits around her face gradually loosened, untangling.

"I meant it when I said you can talk to me. I may not fully understand what you're going through, but I'll listen. I'll listen, and I'll try my best to help, however that may be."

Riza raised a delicate hand to his face and brushed the healed mark on his temple, where the skin beneath had turned a bluish purple, the slit across the stitch now a pale pink. Mournfully, she smiled. "Is it still hurting?"

"Not as much anymore. It looks worse than it is."

Then she rose slowly on her tiptoes, matching his height, and pressed her soft lips over the bruise, as if she was kissing it better. Her skin was warm, her breath comforting, and Roy could feel his eyes closing to the consolation of her kisses.

When she met his gaze again, she held a promising smile and said, "Thank you, Roy. You've already saved me once, and now you're doing it again."

Angry, sad, or jubilant, Riza Hawkeye bound him captive, heart, body, and soul. And he'd give them to her freely. He wanted to see for himself how he could mould her frowns into smiles, her despair into hope.

Without as much as a contemplation, he flowed with the waves, taking her lips in a gentle lap and unleashing his heart into the sky with each thrum, thrum, thrum. His pulse drummed louder, _faster_, when she responded in kind, softly, achingly, a stray hummingbird tasting the sweet sloshing of a new surface. Then she licked and laved, more certain this time, and Roy didn't think he could burn hotter.

Riza stood flat on her feet when they broke for breath and then swooped in again without waiting a beat, kissing him with more fervor, as if she hadn't set him ablaze the first time around. Then it climbed down from its high and tapered into a dulcet tone; into a kiss dusted with reverence and adoration rather than flame. It was only a few seconds but it felt as though it lasted forever. And Roy had never wished to be suspended in a temporal loop until now.

He released her, finally, and could hardly flatten the grin that reached him from ear to ear.

"I'll see you tonight?"

A cheerful smile lurked on her face, brightening her gaze. "See you tonight."

One night Riza told him about her father, the man who left and never returned. She had mused as a child about taking her mother's name and abandoning her father's just as the man had done to his family. And she had seemed dejected. "You would think if every man loved a woman like my father did, then the world would be a better place," she had said. "Instead, he just showed me how vulnerable one could be when that love is gone."

Her parents' untimely departure had plunged her into her loneliest years, and the scars were deep and red and throbbing.

Maybe it was her convictions, how she navigated through her arduous life and arrived to where she was now, prosperous in her own way. Maybe it was her and her Marian-like apparition that mesmerized him all the more. Or maybe it was because time had wrinkled and brought her to him, divine intervention in full force, changing his life before he even knew it.

Roy would be there for her. And she'd never have to feel alone again.

His office door swung abruptly and a blonde woman—tall, imposing and impressive—tramped into the room. Spontaneously, Roy jerked from his chair, the medical notes he'd been composing falling to the floor, but clamped onto his pen. Olivier Armstrong flounced into an empty seat and sat herself with the dignity of royalty, a halo of power and control, the Bureau badge she flashed her scepter.

His nurse chased after the unsolicited guest, gasping as she explained with frantic eyes, "Doctor, I am so sorry! I told her you were busy, but she insisted on speaking with you."

"It's fine, Nurse Yao. Could you please close the door?"

It had barely closed, but the detective scooped herself out of the chair and reached his desk faster than light, slamming her palms on it harshly and making him catch his breath.

"Doctor Mustang," she bellowed. "My name is Olivier Armstrong. I think you know why I'm here."

She couldn't be anymore intimidating if she wanted to.

"Absolutely not," Roy replied in greeting. "To what do I owe this visit?"

"Look, I'm not here to beat your gum, Doctor. I just need you to hand over everything you've got on your brother," she demanded. Her eyes stared directly into his, prodding.

Stonily, he answered, "He's a caring brother, a devoted husband, and a family man."

"You know what I mean. His bootlegging operations, the people he works with, the people he _bumped off_."

The doctor had only known Olivier Armstrong through the media, whom many had dubbed "The Executioner" for her past convictions and her ability to capture the uncaptured. He knew she was ruthless and operated with no heart and a thrice-checked, methodical plan. She was a woman on a mission, condemning petty crimes and minor offences with her own brand of merciless justice. If little things set her off like that, Roy hated to think about all the things his brother had done and deserved.

He settled into his chair when she did the same. "Why do you want to know?"

"To be completely frank, I need more evidence than what we've got to put him away for good," she answered casually, _honestly_. As if it was the sensible thing to do. It _was_ sensible, but it had only made Roy raise his walls higher.

"And what makes you think I would tell you?"

"I know you want him to stop all these hooey business just as much as I do," she declared. "Maes Hughes is dangerous and needs to be brought down. If he's let loose, more lives would be at stake. Can you imagine what would happen to his wife and your stepmother if he'd gunned down just _one_ wrong person? I heard the Sicilians are after him."

Beads of sweat accumulated on his back and dripped down, but he preserved his stubborn gaze and collected cool. Every sentence she spewed had been true. Gracia and Chris wouldn't be spared just because they hadn't amassed the same reputation as the man of the hour. And the Sicilians. Maes had divulged they were involved in the shooting at The Endicott. It was terrifying to think what else they could do.

"Unfortunately, I don't know anything about my brother's business and the people involved."

She stood and paced around the room, eyes darting from one drawing on the wall to the next, as if scouring the treasure trove for a plan that would bring him to her side.

"You want to know what else I've heard?" she cajoled. Her back was turned to him, making her voice quieter, but her biting tone hadn't defused in the slightest.

He maintained his silence, a stiff glare tracking the detective who had begun to tinker with the medical items on the surgical tray.

"I heard Mrs. Hughes is pregnant. Can you confirm if the rumor is true?"

And Roy witnessed The Executioner entering the scene then, sharpening her colossal axe on a wooden stump, a vicious slant to her lips that frightened and discouraged her prisoners from telling lies. There was no point in denying, Roy realized. Gracia was starting to show. It was only about time before she found out.

"Yes."

Her mouth twisted into a wry grin. "So how about it, Doctor? We're both on the same side here. We want what's best for his family."

She was right. They were on the same side. Maes would have been better off at his old Bureau position, no matter how tedious and passionless he was for it; it would have put him on a different path altogether. A safer path.

Olivier _was_ right.

But for the detective with a stern face and a taut bun, Roy knew it was all about the job at hand. Clean the streets and put the perpetrators behind bars, feelings and consequences be damned.

"Come on, Doctor Mustang. There must be something you can give me," she pressed again.

"As I have told you repeatedly, I am not involved in the businesses my brother runs. I don't know anything."

Olivier hummed and coiled a calculating smile then. The air around him suddenly felt cold. Tense. His heart began to quiver, his grip on his pen slick with sweat. He was still hanging onto the damn pen like a life raft. "Would it change your mind, Doctor, if I tell you I can order my agents to take his pretty secretary in for questioning?"

Then his heart stopped. "What?"

"Riza Hawkeye. His new secretary. She handles his business now, I presume. I'm sure she's got plenty of evidence to put him in prison for a _very_ long time."

"_Don't you dare!_" he hissed. His chair tumbled behind him as he jolted up, and Roy raised his finger in anger, pointing menacingly, a fist clenched at his side. "I know you can't take her in. She hasn't done anything wrong. So don't you _dare_ spout idle threats at me like that!"

Without a care, Olivier sighed and shrugged. She leaned into him, close enough he could smell the lingering cigarette stench in her mouth. "You're a sap, you know that. I _know_ she is something to you. I can't force her to confess, but I _will_ figure out another way to put Maes Hughes behind bars. Just you wait."

"I would appreciate it if you could leave now, Detective Armstrong. We're done." His shoulders rose up and down in time with his ragged breath and his tone was clipped, radiating the rage that rushed beneath his limbs.

Olivier Armstrong huffed and marched to the door with her chest puffed up and out as though the world was beneath her. Wordlessly, she departed his office without a single glance back. Roy could hear the hard slam of the front door and the tinkle of the bell that followed when she left, her steps no doubt leaving a fiery trail behind her. He knew he'd see her again. He only hoped it wouldn't be too soon.

* * *

On the next chapter: Mother and Sons

"Edward, where have you been?"

A flicker of defiance lit his golden eyes and twisted his lips into an indignant scowl. But the boy said nothing. Roy had been through this exercise time and time again, employing tact when he could, letting loose a barrage of reproach when anger and panic got the better of him. He hadn't expected Edward to answer. Rather, it would be natural if the boy had run for his room and slammed the door, loudly and ferociously, just to spite him.

Roy was pleasantly surprised when he answered.

"I'm... sorry," he mumbled.


	10. Mother and Sons

A/N: I hope everyone is doing well! We're moving into the core of the action very soon, so please enjoy the slower, fluffier piece while it lasts :).

Shout out to **waddiwasiwitch** for the help with Roy's childhood background! The photos you sent me for the inspiration of Ard álainn were lovely, friend 3

To the Guest review on the last chapter: I'm glad you enjoyed their interactions! I, for one, am a big fan of character building through interactions, and every little action is everything. I appreciate you and your comments very much. I loved every single one you left, and I would _never_ say no if you leave me more, lol. Thank you so much!

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**Chapter 10: Mother and Sons**

Doctor Thomas Mustang was a gentleman. As a father and husband, he was affectionate, more so than most men of his time, and displayed love for his family openly—a peck on the cheek here, a warm hug there, and a fond pat on the head that seemed to right everything that was wrong in an instant. Inspired and selfless, he chose to set aside his tremendous wealth for the wellbeing of others who were less fortunate.

Roy must have been two or three years old; he couldn't remember exactly. But it was a small, coastal town called Ard álainn where they moved to, about five hours west of Cork City bounded by the Celtic Sea and an infinite meadow of the purplest bluebells. The name meant "beautiful peak," and as a child Roy remembered it being every bit beautiful and hilly, suspended in the sky and overlooking a briny cerulean blue that persevered day after day.

During his days off, the doctor would take his son to the edge of the coastline. Close enough that Roy felt mist along the faint freckles of his arms but far enough that he wouldn't risk falling into the water. His mother, Mary, had been a housewife since she was married. A nurse when time called for it. She was quiet yet observant, a silent pillar, easy to forget but never invisible. Mary would cram a picnic—spiced baked ham, homemade bread and berry jam, and apple juice in great quantity—so much so that they could only wolf down a quarter of what she brought.

Thomas Mustang's wealth had held the town over for the next several years. It had saved many from consumption that pillaged the idyllic coast, though it could not stave off the steadily declining population since the Irish famine almost three decades prior. It was only when the last remaining townsmen had packed up and left that his father had decided to move their family to New York.

"It's always been about what I want. Now it's your turn, Roy," the doctor had said. And at six years old, Roy Mustang departed paradise, a handful of close friends, and crossed the ocean with an excitable heart and his mother's consoling hand around his tiny one.

Tonight, the air smelled like fall. In the fall twenty years ago, his parents passed away. A car accident. Toppling them over the cliffside on their way back to their cozy East Village home. Roy had been too young to remember the month or the date, even when his aunt had broadcast it with a funereal countenance every year thereafter. But Roy clung to the smell. And it was that rainfall scent that lingered above ground, earthy and smoky, that had made him weep with treasured memories. Everything else had failed to raise tears.

There were perks about being an only child. The day they passed away might have been a haze, but no other soul could contradict what he remembered—the zeal of his father's lilt as he narrated his youthful adventures, or the sweet and tangy taste of his mother's homemade jam when it touched his tongue. Doctor Mustang and his wife were forever locked in a standstill, unaltered and venerated. A healer, a savior. A carer. Memories turned into aspiration and then conviction. Roy hadn't felt this close to his parents again until he pressed a stethoscope onto the chest of his first patient.

New York was nothing like Ard álainn, but Roy found triumph in her ability to keep up with the world. Rather than sealed in it was open and ever changing, full of brisk movements that carried one day to the next without so much as a chance to breathe in moments and lose himself in the process. And sometimes, people find solace in that. He did. Certainly.

It was two hours earlier than his usual return, but Roy spotted himself in front of his mahogany door with more than a full mind and a cumbersome heart. He stepped onto the leaf-bearded porch and dipped his hand into his coat pocket, pressing the heart shaped trinket into his silky palm. When the doctor emerged on the other side of the door and peeked into his living room, quiet as a mouse, his bleak eyes narrowed. He could have sworn he had entered the wrong house.

Gene Austin's latest number rumbled from his old phonograph, scratchy, but chugged onward determinedly, buoying the floor with a persistent glee. There were fresh-picked daisies in the vase, a traveling fragrance of butter and sugar in the heated air, and a discordant sound of yelling and crowing that coaxed colors into the typically tranquil space.

He saw Georgie on his haunches, Roy's wood chess board splayed in front of him, screaming and grabbing at his pale pelt like a man at the brink of a gambling loss. His round spectacles took up full residence in the middle of the board around stumbled pieces, as if the child had flung it there in a fit of rage. Across from him, Alphonse belted a coarse laugh that threw his head way back, slapping his thigh ecstatically and enjoying himself far too much. The twelve-year old mopped at his tear-stained eyes and picked up Georgie's glasses, returning it to his florid face.

"_Wait. I think he's here!"_

Riza's voice came in a strained whisper, and both boys snapped their heads in the direction of the kitchen. She must have heard him come home. Each night he found her unharmed allowed for some relief; Olivier Armstrong hadn't struck, or maybe she was all empty threats. Then Georgie and Alphonse jerked back around and caught him staring at them, wide eyed, as if they'd just been discovered in a game of hide and seek.

Without warning, the two leapt and rammed into him like heavy-set linebackers, sending him tumbling a few steps back and pounding the air out of him that he'd had to gasp. With short, frantic breaths Georgie clung to his hand, something akin to exhilaration making him squeal and squeak. Alphonse looped his skinny arms around the doctor's torso, squeezing, his hard head bumping against the strip of his collarbone.

"Happy birthday, Doc!" they exclaimed in unison.

In the midst of an exhausting day, Roy had forgotten. Completely.

Just as suddenly, both children released him and scampered to their spots on the opposite sides of the chess board again. He could hear Riza call out to him, her tone lighter than usual, "So much for a surprise. You're home earlier than usual."

Daringly, Roy ventured into his exuberant home and into the kitchen. He found Riza gliding from a steaming pot on the electric stove to the half-done pie roosting on the nearby countertop where he was standing. With precise hands and a focused watch, she began to weave ribbons of dough into a lattice over sliced apples and cloying caramel. Her gingham apron made her look blissfully domestic, a resolute housewife taming her frantic children and weary husband with baked goods and a hearty meal.

"I hope you don't mind, but I'm throwing a little party," Riza explained as she pinched the edges of the pie. Pausing, she tilted up at him and threw a small smile over her flushed face. "Gracia wanted to come, but she had something to do at the last minute. She dropped off spinach quiche. Your favorite, she said. I didn't invite anyone else. I figured you'd be too tired to entertain."

"Are you cooking for me?" he asked, surprised.

She laughed melodiously. "Yes! You're losing weight, and I can't have that. You also never told me you're only twenty-seven!"

"Is that a problem?"

"I'm twenty-nine. Two full years older than you!" Riza proclaimed, raising two fingers in horror. She blew a gust through her mouth. "My mother used to always say, take five years out of a man's age and that's how old they really are."

Amused, Roy pointed at his chest. "You're saying I act like I'm twenty-two?"

He could see her considering, regarding the simmering soup with a hard stare. "Well, no... but what does that say about me?"

"Are you implying there is more to us, Miss Hawkeye?" he teased, tutting the gap between them.

"That- that's not what I'm saying at all. You're twisting my words..."

They talked often; they'd had long conversations where she'd learn plenty about him and he'd learn a thing or two about her. And they'd undoubtedly kept their proximity closer than anyone would a friend, touching, brushing, during these heart-to-hearts. But she hadn't made it known she wanted to be kissed again. And Roy certainly had tried his best not to, even if it took a great deal of concentration to follow through. Love seemed a stranger to Riza Hawkeye, and the fire they shared in the safe cocoon of his clinic had only served to chip her massive, concrete wall.

Gently, Roy took and held her restless hand, threading steady fingers into hers. "Riza, what are you afraid of?"

"I don't know," she murmured. But she didn't let go of his hand. "Maybe because you're not real... You _can't_ be real..." The slur of her speech veered into a discreet mumble, as if too much had slipped out without her consent. He couldn't produce the rest of what she was saying with her gaze so elusive and the water gurgling on the stove.

He lifted her hand and pressed his lips on her dewy skin. "I'm real, and I'm not going anywhere."

Only then Riza sought his gaze, radiant brown eyes meeting tenacious black. There was a raveling in them, small as they might be, a fissure on her cemented barrier, a loosing of tangled vines. "You don't get it… You're impossible. _This_ is impossible..." she croaked breathlessly.

"Ah, you're so stubborn, _a ghrá_. Too stubborn to believe it," he said without grievance.

She let loose a tiny, rueful smile. Then she gripped his hand, clutching it like a lone soul needing the sturdiness of another.

"Why are you holding hands?" Georgie asked out of nowhere.

The child stood with his back against the kitchen island, one brow raised with reproach. Both of his arms were folded across his chest, short fingers drumming against his elbow like a headmaster eyeing a couple of debauched students in the act.

Riza let go immediately and turned her back to the little warden. Her hands were suddenly busy tossing salt and pepper and herbs into the bubbling cauldron. Roy wiped at his face roughly and turned around all the same. He inhaled and halted his breath.

"Holding hands is for married people!" Georgie admonished, huffing and harrumphing. Even at eight years old he was already channeling his inner grandfather.

The tension broke, and Roy couldn't help but laugh. Riza did too, and the ease with which she pealed with mirth soothed the constriction in his chest.

As if on cue, Alphonse called out from the living room. "Georgie, we need to finish our game!"

"But I already lost!" Georgie whined, pulling at his hair as if to emphasize his despair.

"No, you haven't. Come on! We can even start a new game if you'd like."

Dinner came and went with little fanfare. The food was delicious, comforting—crumbling apple pie that tasted different than what Roy was used to, Gracia's famous quiche, and matzo ball soup, a traditional Jewish dish Riza claimed was better than chicken noodle soup. The table discussion orbited around Georgie and his new fantastical story, _The King and Queen of Balderan_. _Balder_ meant "the bearer of light" in Danish, the child supplied. The king had healing power, and the queen intelligence and foresight. It sounded a lot like him and Riza. But there was absolutely no kissing and holding hands in his tale, except at the end when the king and queen finally married.

Edward had been missing from all of this. Alphonse mentioned he was at the Rockbell's for an extended stay when Roy asked. It was nearing eight in the evening when his concerns finally erupted, and panic started to hover over him like an inky shadow. He telephoned Pinako, verifying the veracity of the younger brother's claim. The older woman corroborated and added that her granddaughter was with him. Edward had been out to visit his mother's grave, and Winry kept him company.

Soon, Roy found himself drying clean dishes with Riza at the helm, ordering her little lieutenants to haul the dirty ones from the dining table. Once all was done and dusted, Alphonse climbed up the stairs for an early turn-in, a thick book in his hand he declared a casualty of unfocused concentration. Georgie, who was staying the night, followed behind with careful, suspicious glances at the two adults still up and about in the kitchen.

Roy was pacing, crossing the wooden floor and back again, touching random ornamentations above the fireplace mantel just to keep himself occupied. When the false composure on his countenance began to split, Riza approached him and mollified, "He'll be back soon."

Roy held tight to his resistance. "I'm not worried."

Her expression softened into a knowing smile. "Yes, you are. And that is okay."

He sighed, carding through his unruly hair again. "I try not to worry, but he's not exactly… easy."

Her hand floated to his shoulder, but she didn't let it rest there for too long. "You're just being a good dad."

"Taking care of them is the least I could do."

Riza was not one to pry or press, but Roy could tell her mind had wandered more than once tonight about Edward and Alphonse and their unconventional arrangement. He didn't owe Riza their story. He didn't think he owed her anything for that matter. But he craved her silent thoughts and needed her to echo the things he had done right, that he'd been sailing the proper course, even if he knew the promise of absolution was only a flickering beacon in the still distant shore.

"Their mother was a good friend of mine before she passed," he recounted.

She fluttered an astounded gaze, but it was quickly schooled into order. "What was her name?"

"Trisha."

"That's a lovely name. I'm sure she was also a lovely person."

"She was, yes." He affirmed with a nod. Gradually, his somber expression lurched into a wistful smile until it thrived into a steady grin. "I was sure Maes had daydreamed about her one time or another, and I had told him she was much older and would never consider dating a brat like him. If you noticed, Gracia has green eyes and brown hair. Same color as Trisha's."

"I didn't know Maes had a type," she indulged without missing a beat.

"He has a type alright. He had never dated anyone with lighter coloring. You have no idea how difficult it was for me to ward off those women."

Riza must have recognized his drive for triviality. Tossing her shoulder-length mane back, she chuckled, "I guess I never had a chance with my blonde hair and light brown eyes."

And he continued to entertain the ever prevailing pleasantry, teasing her, "Probably not. But you could always learn to bake a mean spinach quiche, and _perhaps_ he'll reconsider."

"I like to think I do alright in the cooking department," she smirked. "Was Trisha an amazing cook, too?"

His shoulders rose and shrugged, "I don't know how to tell you this without making you feel lousy. She was probably one of the best. Better than Grandma Rockbell, that's for sure."

She snapped her fingers. "Ah. Everything makes sense now."

"Hmm?"

The respectful distance she kept between them dwindled. Playfully, she poked his chest where his heart took a tumble and then his stomach, tittering quietly. "There's truth to the saying, 'The way to a man's heart is through his stomach.' Edward gives you a hard time because you're a terrible cook. That must be it."

He didn't know how she arrived at that logic, but he laughed. He laughed out loud. Before she came, Roy hadn't ever tried to imbue humor into his inadvertent relationship with the boys. Now he couldn't stop laughing. "Right. It really _is_ that simple. I should just pick up a spatula and start whipping an apple pie. That's their favorite. Maybe you can teach me, Professor Hawkeye."

Her laughter crescendoed, and it was glorious and pleasing. Roy couldn't suppress his own until she finally did. Her expression sobered, piece by piece, and she laid a delicate hand on his chest, as if preparing him for what's to come, her sensible eyes drawn to him. She didn't push him away when his arms snaked around her anchoring waist.

"For all it's worth, I think Edward looks up to you. He may not say it, or even show it, but during one of our lessons he mentioned wanting to become a doctor. He wants to save lives. Now, where would he get that idea if not by watching you work?"

Roy should've been happy. But his heart was suddenly made of glass, and it felt impossible to call back the same frivolity of apple pies and the boys, Maes' womanly preference and Trisha's green eyes and tawny hair. Dejection bracketed his trembling lips, and he quavered, "Riza, I... killed their mother."

His confession startled her—in the subtle way her mouth parted and hung—but she considered him, considered his _words_, with an unflinching regard that reduced him into a penitent mess. He ducked his head into the curve of her shoulder and revealed, "I led_ them_ to her, and I didn't know. I let it all happen," and revealed, and revealed some more, letting the destructive gale wreck him again, over and over, as it always had. "I got her killed, and I couldn't save her."

Realization dawned on her soundless face. Riza was studious in her silence, reflective, and the prolonged play underlined her sentiment. Then slowly, tenderly, she brought her hand up and swept at his wet bangs. When she spoke it wasn't full of repugnance as he had feared, but with a sternness that coaxed reason and rationality.

"This was all in the past, Roy. Now you are here, in the present. What have you done since?"

"I…" He thought for a minute. "I make sure Edward doesn't get into trouble and that Alphonse is well taken care of."

"And I can see that you're trying your hardest with that," she acknowledged, combing through his hair consolingly.

"There's not a day where I don't wish I could turn back time…" he mourned.

She cradled his face and held it to her lulling gaze. It was so deep and bottomless that Roy didn't know if he could ever surface. Maybe he didn't want to.

"I'd like to think that tragedies and victories make a person whole," she conferred. "If we've only had victories in our lives, then each one would mean less and less to us until they become meaningless. I never wanted my father to leave me, but then I wouldn't know how grateful I'd be for my grandfather. I wouldn't know how much I loved and missed him until I lost him."

"But you're getting your second chance with him now," Roy breathed, scouring her glassy, doleful eyes.

"Yes, I suppose I am," she whispered. Then Riza shrugged and snorted as she spoke with self-deprecation, "So maybe I'm just full of shit, and we all should get the chance to go back in time. It's been _oh-so easy_, you know?"

And just like that the dark clouds drifted away, allowing room for levity once more. Roy chuckled and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, drawing her in, the breath he'd been arresting released in a long sigh. "You sure have a way to make me hate myself less. Thank you."

Affably, she smiled, "Anytime, Roy." And her eyes closed with an easy calmness as he lingered a kiss on her forehead.

When he pulled back, he muttered, "Your grandfather is going to kill me for touching you."

The front door creaked and whined then, and instantly Roy stiffened. But the alarm was slow to burst after a taxing night, and he respired deeply, letting Riza slip away and bid him goodnight. He waited. As expected, Edward crept in, a sinuous line towards the stairs. His tiptoeing gaze dotted the quiet, skimming the narrow halls ahead and into the living room. And he saw Roy.

"Edward?"

The boy ducked his head shamefully, but approached him all the same. Roy could hear his subdued grumble. The mental kick in the head.

"Edward, where have you been?"

Silent.

"Did you walk Winry back?" he asked again. "I know you two were visiting Trisha's grave."

There it was.

When Edward looked up at him, a flicker of defiance lit his golden eyes and twisted his lips into an indignant scowl. But the boy said nothing, and Roy let out a sigh.

Roy had been through this exercise time and time again, employing tact when he could, letting loose a barrage of reproach when anger and panic got the better of him. He hadn't expected Edward to answer. Rather, it would be natural if the boy had run for his room and slammed the door, loudly and ferociously, just to spite him.

Full of assurance, Edward answered, "I walked her back."

Roy was pleasantly surprised when he answered.

"...and I'm... sorry," he mumbled, his brazen gaze fading, and confronted the dark kitchen to elude Roy's prying stare. "I lost track of time..."

The doctor raked his fingers through his limp strands, leaning his weight on one leg. "Just call if you'll be out late. We were worried. We didn't know where you were."

The knot in the boy's posture slackened. His large eyes rounded in surprise. "You're not going to yell at me?"

"No." And Roy stressed it with a head shake. "It's late. You should go to bed. But before that…" Timidly, his hand searched his coat pocket and plucked out a heart shaped locket, the cover carved into an intricate gold filigree. There was a slight crack in his voice when he spoke, "I wanted to give you this."

Edward hovered near, curious, but when he opened his hand he began to stammer, "This- this was mother's… How did you get it?"

Inside was a round, cutout photograph of Trisha Elric, the outline of her kind face withered with neglect and time. But Roy could still see the warmth the woman had carried throughout her short life, and his heart sang plaintively of memories he wouldn't forget.

"I was at the waterfront," Roy elucidated. "I wanted to make sure there was nothing important in your old house before it's torn down completely."

"Why? It's been two years, and you never wanted to go back..."

The doctor stood mutely for a moment. He peered at Edward, but his pensive gaze flitted past the boy and caught the illuminating beacon in the distance. It was closer than before.

"Doc?"

He smiled, full of hope, "I... finally found the courage."

* * *

On the next chapter: Who He Was

His grand entrance was as shocking and unforeseen as his brief arrest. Maes Hughes strolled into the office, tossing his hulking jacket onto the wobbly coat rack, and placed his briefcase on the side of her desk with a big, effortless smile. With a flourish the mobster raised his hands into the air and clapped, loudly. Everyone who had been watching him now stared with anticipation.

"There's whisky in the conference room. Take a bottle, and not a word to anyone!"

The office rumbled as they made their way down the flight of stairs. The place was empty in a matter of seconds, everyone craving for a piece of the forbidden fruit. Riza was the only one sitting still, heart pumping, waiting.

Maes swiveled around, and then looked at her with a deep trench between his brows. The corner of his eye was watching his side, his back, guarding him from something.

"Riza, I need you to help me."


	11. Who He Was, Part I

A/N: I apologize for the delay in posting! Things at work have been ridiculously hectic. I hope things are well with you, and you'll enjoy this chapter :)

* * *

**Chapter 11: Who He Was, Part I**

It was questions after questions. Rebecca was relentless today. It was a good thing work at the office was slow, nothing but a tray of posts that needed opening and distribution to the proper addressee. Her friend's slim body had coiled into the swivel chair next to her, a pair of lustrous eyes as permanent and shiny as the reflection of the East River at the streak of dawn. Every morning Riza crossed the bridge, and not once had she failed to notice the quiet, gentle ripples across the waterway. They drew deep thoughts, of things that never changed in spite of the passing time. And of things that did.

The conversation had begun with the topic of "men," which, Riza decided, was her friend's stealthy inlet into a peek of her muted life with the doctor. Unlike the smooth undulating surface of the strait, theirs ebbed and flowed; it certainly felt that way to her. Roy had healed her, called her a liar, kissed her, and then revealed a glimpse into his dismal past. She never knew when he'd sweep her up and bring her back down, but each time she only realized the implacable need of his presence.

Rebecca had her hands propping a set of stubborn chin, and she batted her long lashes at Riza.

"Do you call him Roy when you're alone, or do you call him Doctor Mustang like everyone else here?" she inquired with a coquettish smile.

Riza preferred to keep all aspects of her life to herself. The brunette flicked her beaming eyes again, and little by little, she felt her resolve cracking. Under a normal circumstance Riza would prevail, but there was a persuasive quality to Rebecca that made it hard to refuse her. Easily, Riza could imagine many men falling prey to her charm, dropping to their knees as the smoky eyed enchantress weaved her carefully learned spells. Rebecca teased her just enough to get her riled up, but never too far to push her away.

Maybe it was a skill she'd sharpened while working for Chris as a gentleman's escort. Or maybe it was the brimming sensation of telling another the bliss that never failed to raise her heartbeat and make her gasp for air. Either way, Rebecca would get what she wanted.

"He told me to call him Roy," Riza relented.

Rebecca sulked outwardly, but delight surged around every inch of her lips as she dove closer. "Not fair. He never told me to call him that. And I'm not going to start."

Her shoulders rose and sank, and a small smile crept along her lips. "Give it time."

The conversation quickly veered into chit chats of family and children. A stream of current coursed through her limbs, rousing the soft hairs on her arms. It wasn't a topic she liked to discuss. Her childhood consisted of sporadic moments that left too shallow of an impression for her to ever want one.

Her mother had been good to her, tucking her in and floating soft hums that'd put her to sleep each night. It wasn't until her father focused what little time he had on his hand on his research for the university that her mother began to pay more attention to him and less to her. She didn't mind it much most days. Being left alone meant more time to herself, allowing her tiny feet to spur the soiled, overgrown backyard, finding broken straws and dried willow fronds to build yet another nest. At least the birds would have a home.

"How many children would you have?" Rebecca asked with those big, determined eyes, her back shifting against the curvy wooden slats.

"I haven't really thought about it," Riza admitted softly, her toes curling inside her oxfords. "None. Or maybe one, if I'm lucky."

"Lucky?" The frisky woman giggled. "Have you been trying without luck?"

Incredulous, she frowned at her friend. "Who's going to have my baby? I'm not married. I don't even have a boyfriend."

Rebecca caught her breath, a swift hand over her mouth. "You mean to tell me you don't carry a torch for the doctor?" Then she bent forward and whispered, "I thought something was going on between you two."

Her lips tightened into a grimace. "Why is everyone saying that?"

The brunette's index finger found her lips, tapping it lightly. "Hmm let's see… Maybe because of the way he looks at you whenever he visits here? Maybe because he has that silly grin every time he's near you? You have it too, doll. It goes both ways, you see? So why don't _you_-" she prodded at Riza, and then at herself, twisting that knowing smile, "tell _me_ the truth?"

"If a look is supposed to mean something then I suppose you and Jean have got something going on too then?" It was worth a try. And Riza had noticed the spark, that jolt of electricity, between them too, even if Rebecca claimed that their love affair had been slow-going.

She grinned and twirled in her chair. "Sorry, darling, but that won't work on me. What's the answer then?" Rebecca pointed with the sword of her finger, poking her in the chest to spur her on. "Spill it, vamp!"

In surrender, her hands shoved into the air. "Alright, alright. Yes, there is something, probably. I just don't know what that is. Yet."

"Uh-oh. He's made a move on you then?"

This time her cheeks grew rosy. She didn't even need to say a word before the brunette caught on and let out a faint shriek in return, her jaw dropping to the ground.

"Oh my God, you can't keep me in the dark like this! Tell me!"

In an attempt to mute the woman before she drew too much attention, Riza reached out and laid a firm grip on her shoulders, squeezing. Moving a fidgety hand over her friend's mouth, Riza stifled the laughter that made its way out, shushing Rebecca, shushing herself when she felt her own burst of glee traveling up the column of her throat.

"No, no. That's for next time. You've already asked too many questions," Riza promised with a smile and went on, changing the subject, "Now you tell me about yourself; it's only fair."

Rebecca's stare turned nonchalant, and she rebuffed the question as though she was only as intriguing as another partygoer in the Hugheses' social circle. "Nothing much about me. My parents live in Chicago, and I moved here to find work. My old employer was abominable, and then Chris found me," she said matter-of-factly.

Her grip on Rebecca's shoulder relaxed, and she patted her friend's arm. "Oh, Rebecca, I'm so sorry."

"I want to meet a rich, handsome man and never have to worry about working another day in my life," she announced with conviction in her voice.

"Then you'll have to worry about taking care of him. That's a different kind of work. Not an easy one, it seems like," Riza chuckled. "And the house and the children, too, if you have any."

"I'll have just one kid, of course. A son. And I'll pour my heart and soul into this kid. Give him anything he wants." Her gaze dimmed and drifted into a silent contemplation, and for a second a fleeting thought crossed Riza's mind: Did she have a son? Rebecca spoke as if she'd had this child and lost him, though as far as Riza knew Rebecca was a single, childless twenty-four year old.

"I know you'll make a good mother one day."

"Anyway, I need to find a husband first," she continued, dismissing her remark as if it was spoken out of turn. But then she grinned, mischief finding ways into her glimmering eyes again. "Jean Havoc is at the top of my list. A blue-eyed, blond-haired baby will be perfect. I'm sure Jean makes good money, too, working for Hughes."

Her body shook with amusement. "Not trying to burst your bubble here, but you might want to start by asking him out first."

Rebecca's manicured nail poked into the flesh of her cheek. She laughed. "Oh, just let me dream, will you?"

The interlude passed only to strike again when Kain and Maria returned from their daily errands—posting mail, depositing cash and picking up everyone's paychecks for the week—and joined in on their conversation. Smoothly, Rebecca steered them into talks of dressing up the bespectacled man into gentility; she thought he needed help landing some luck with women, to which he replied he "could get a woman if he wanted to."

Their voices faded into murmured drones as her mind began to churn images of a suburban house, a kitchen where she'd bake, and a playful child on her lap. It was difficult to imagine caring for another when she could barely care for herself. Now, she found herself torn for entertaining the possibility of a family in a time she didn't belong. But it was a place where nobody knew her; even her grandfather didn't know who she truly was. A new nest was waiting around the corner, and she could watch over her grandfather all the while, see him become the man she grew up admiring and not worry once about having him leave her first. It felt oddly comforting.

"_Hey, hey, tidy up your desks."_

Her head craned towards the gentle reprimand from a lanky, grey-haired man who called himself Vato Falman. He rarely came out of his hiding, preferring to stay within the four walls of his small, stark office on the factory floor below her. Riza watched as he knocked his brisk fingers onto the row of men's desks in the outer office. He whirled around and declared to everyone, who had been following his resolute trail.

"I saw Mr. Hughes on the way back from lunch. Don't let him see you slack off."

It was practically seconds before a familiar jutting strands of black hair made an appearance. Only a moment later Riza heard a booming shout, prompting her heart to leap and her gaze to latch onto the alarming figure.

"I'm back, everyone!"

His grand entrance was as shocking and unforeseen as his brief arrest. Maes Hughes strolled into the office, tossing his hulking jacket onto the wobbly coat rack, and placed his briefcase on the side of her desk with a big, effortless smile. With a flourish the mobster raised his hands into the air and clapped, loudly. Everyone who had been watching him now stared with anticipation.

"There's whisky in the conference room. Take a bottle, and not a word to anyone!"

The office rumbled as they made their way down the flight of stairs. The place was empty in a matter of seconds, everyone craving for a piece of the forbidden fruit. Riza was the only one sitting still, heart pumping, waiting.

Maes swiveled around, and then looked at her with a deep trench between his brows. The corner of his eye was watching his side, his back, guarding him from some_thing_. Only then did she see the streak of sweat across the line of his forehead, the sheen along his neck. He seemed as if he'd been chased and let free to warn the others. Something was coming, and whatever it was was scaring her.

"Riza, I need you to help me."

"You're released? For good?" she interrupted before he could speak.

"There's not enough evidence to put me away." His eyes drifted to a place behind her and found their way back with a palpable nervousness that unsettled her. "Not yet anyway," he murmured.

"How can I help?" she kept her voice low even if she didn't feel the need to do so.

His gaze was scurrying again, to the windows, to the doors, and to his office which had been sitting unoccupied in the last few weeks. But just as suddenly all traces of anxiety were swept away from his face as footfalls thudded up the stairs and increasing voices made their way into the vacant space. Maes lifted his finger and pointed to his office, flaunting a feigned smile.

"No one disturb me while I catch up on work. No one, you hear? Not even those blasted detectives," he grumbled the last part, and then he went into his office without another word.

Those "blasted detectives" turned out to be one person: a stubby, jowl-heavy man who wore a beige fedora to hide his thinning hair. The man certainly looked the part of an inspector with his knee-length gabardine coat, a crisp woolen vest and paisley tie beneath. His sure strides sold the act; the haughty pull of his shoulder and the way his chin tilted up high. He approached the first desk he saw with a daunting air of authority.

Riza could barely make out the man's conversation with the receptionist, but the woman at the desk gestured towards her. The man followed her finger and caught Riza by the eye, and his every tread as he neared sank into the linoleum floor as though he weighed a thousand pounds, making a slow clomp, clomp, clomp noise like an old, overworked horse.

"Miss," he greeted, tipping his hat at her. His accent was thick, not one she recognized, and his voice rough, making her feel as though she was being interrogated rather than talked to. His cologne was nauseatingly strong, too, scrunching up the bridge of her nose. "I'm here to see Maes Hughes. We released him today and he forgot to sign one more paperwork."

At one point her chest constricted as she waited for him to finish, but she scolded herself into order and spoke with a blank stoicism, "May I see your badge and identification, sir?"

He reached into his back pocket and took out a rusty bronze badge. Then he patted his big coat and snatched his ID card, flipping it to reveal the name Albert Smith. Albert Smith seemed strangely familiar, she thought. His shoulder holster was strapped around his equally big body, a pistol clasped into the hilt. His expression was as indifferent as it could be, but Riza was sure he wanted her to see what he had underneath.

"Detective Smith, I apologize, but Mr. Hughes is busy and will not be seeing anyone today."

In response, he draped his coat to the side and held it there, making sure this time she was really seeing what he wanted her to see. "I'm from the Bureau, Miss. I can assure you he wants to see me, to make sure his paperwork is done properly. You understand these things get missed with so many to process each day."

Maria inserted herself just in time, giving Riza the proper time to collect herself.

"Sir, can I help you?" the accountant inquired with a brazen tone Riza had never heard before.

"Yes. I was just telling her that I need to see Mr. Hughes. It's imperative that I see him today."

There was a look of caution that flashed across Maria's confident face, but she remained cool and continued, "As Miss Hawkeye has told you, Mr. Hughes is busy today and won't be seeing anyone. We can squeeze you in for another day if you'd like."

His nostrils flared like an enraged bull. His face was as red as the wet plump of his bottom lip. Clearly, he was losing his patience as his voice rose into a half-shout when he spoke, dots of spittle flying out of his mouth, "Look here, young lady. I need to see him now!"

At this, everyone tilted their curious heads and affixed their eyes at the great bulk of a man. It was crickets for a time, a silent warpath slicing the spaces between Maria's and his obdurate glare. Fuery approached out of nowhere and tapped him on his broad back. The communication specialist towered a few inches over the detective but the younger man seemed delicate and thin, merely a stick figure beside him.

"Mr. Hughes is currently in a meeting with the investors. I was just coming out of there since I heard the commotion. I'm afraid he will be busy for the rest of the day," Kain lied effortlessly.

Riza stood from her chair and chimed in her reprisal, "Detective Smith," she began. The man turned from Kain to her, trapping her with his pale, piercing eyes. "I'll be happy to fit you into his schedule for next week. He's available then."

Sensing the unyielding attention from the others around, he rattled his teeth and traipsed a punishing glower at Maria, Fuery, and then back at her again, a belligerent look that promised payback in the days to come. But the detective untucked his hat from underneath his arm and fitted it over his sweaty head. He left soon after, hissing under his breath, and Riza fluttered inquiringly to Maria who had turned as white as a sheet.

"Maria, are you alright?"

It was as if she'd been pulled into a deep trance, but Maria jerked her head and flung her distraught eyes at Riza. "Sorry, Riza. I was just wondering who he was and why he was so goddamn rude!"

"Are you sure you're alright? I mean, I don't think he's who he says he-"

"Yes, I'm fine," she clipped and closed her case, "I'm going to visit the ladies' room. I need to freshen up after all that." With no further remarks, she left with a briskness in her steps that seemed to tell a different story.

Fuery eyed Maria as she slipped down the stairs, and when she was gone he confronted her, his brown eyes rounding in curiosity behind his dark-rimmed spectacles. "Do you know him, Riza?"

"I feel like I've seen him..." And her eyes were suddenly wide, owl-like, and a breathy gasp stopped her in her tracks. "Oh, _shit_."

"What, what?" Kain was suddenly just as frantic as she was. His fanned out hands found purchase on her desk, and he leaned forward as if he couldn't hear her clearly from where he stood.

She mumbled to herself, "His name isn't Smith." But Kain nodded and narrowed his eyes, as if trying to make sense of her statement. "His name is Albert Anselmi," she finished in barely a whisper.

Kain wouldn't know who she was talking about. But she had seen the detective's pudgy face, once, plastered on the Chicago Daily News alongside a few of Chicago Outfit's "made men"—men who were inducted into the Italian mafia, being male and of Sicilian descent being the requirements. Anselmi was one of their most prolific hitmen who was half of a pair. The "Murder Twins," they dubbed him and his partner. Anselmi's stature was much shorter and rounder than what his blurry photo had implied, but Riza recognized that one-of-a-kind smug, businessman appearance he wore in the newspaper clipping.

"Albert… who?"

Abruptly, Riza grabbed the coat that had been draping the back of her chair and wrapped herself in it without a care. Her hand dipped into her purse, scrambling through her things in search of her pocket knife. Who knew who she would come across on her walk to the office every morning.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Kain," she barked, sprinting clumsily in her heeled oxfords towards the exit. "Please cover for me!"

"Riza, wait!" he shouted behind her. But all of her was already in pursuit of the man who had just left Hughes-Mustang Company, Ltd.

It was him. Albert Anselmi was the Sicilian.

And he and Frankie Yale were the ones responsible for the shooting at the Endicott Hotel.

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A/N: No excerpt on the next chapter as everything about it is just spoilers :). However, rest assured that they will not take as long to finish and post as this chapter. Thank you for reading!


	12. Who He Was, Part II

A/N: I just want to take a moment and thank everyone who has been reading and following, commenting and liking this story thus far. A lot of research went into this fic, and I am happy to be able to incorporate real, historical figures (Frankie Yale, Albert Anselmi, Peg Leg Lonergan to name a few) and the always so stunning New York backdrop among our favorite FMA characters. Lots of things happening on a professional and personal level in the last few weeks, and I apologize if I have been slow on reading and commenting on your stories. I am also no longer on Tumblr, but I am on discord ruikosakuragi#0071. Feel free to reach out to me there! I'd love to talk to you, if you want to talk to me :). I hope you enjoy this chapter!

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**Chapter 12: Who He Was, Part II**

With nothing but a small folding knife in the pocket of her drop-waist dress, Riza trailed after the Sicilian from a distance, just near enough so she could keep up with his pudgy outline. She convinced herself this was what her grandfather had wanted; he had wanted her to keep Maes Hughes safe. But there was no plan in place, no recollection of how October 8th, 1925 played about in the crevice of her memory, and she supposed there was also a damn good chance her grandfather would have berated her for going in reckless and unprepared.

However, Riza was sure of who he was, and she chalked up her imprudence to stopping a man who wished to see an expedient end to the Irish gangs, the Hughes-Mustang family being the last and most flourishing of them. But it wasn't their time. Not yet. Anselmi's own death was mere months before the Great Depression, though how he died had nothing to do with the economy collapsing nor employment falling; Albert Anselmi was never short of work during his lifetime.

Manhattan's Bowery was rife with pedestrians on a Thursday afternoon. Factory workers breezed past its sprawl of sepia-bricked buildings in purposeful gait, while others milled about the cobblestoned streets mired in a stench of cooking grease and train exhaust overhead. The hitman rid himself of his big coat and blended into the crowd, squeezing through a throng of customers in front of a hot dog stand that smelled like bacon and fat.

The pale blue of her dress gathered dirt and dust from constantly pressing herself against grimy walls, and she knew Roy would ask what she had been up to. There would be no appeasing the doctor, but Anselmi was ever vigilant and kept watch of his back as if he decided someone would be after him since the fiasco at Hughes-Mustang Company Ltd. Riza kept on the shoes that began to nip at her toes but traded her cloche hat for the intermittent scatter of rain; she needed a clear view of his whereabouts at all times.

A curious, albeit disturbed part of her anticipated a friend waiting just around the corner, the mafia's hefty compensation in a briefcase or a slew of further instructions for his midday agenda. History was only as reliable as the extent of its source, and Riza was unaware the Sicilian had been knee-deep in the attempt on Maes' life. Anselmi halted in his track, peeking an inquiring eye into the newspaper stand on Kenmare and Mulberry, and she stopped with him. When he moved again, she trudged along carefully but instantly felt a jolt in her beating heart when she saw Maria Ross tracking the same path.

Maria was several footfalls behind him, out of his line of sight, and tailed after him like a seasoned spy. The harsh pleats on her pallid face told Riza she was not his friend, but there was no reason for Maria to chase after him. Riza could think of nothing the man had said that would warrant an impulsive hunt by the accountant. Riza could almost hear her grandfather's words of wisdom, "Some things will be overlooked, and history will not tell the missing tale." And sometimes Riza wondered if George Grumman had always been aware of her existence long before she was even born.

Maybe she was supposed to be here, fulfilling the path set in stone for her.

Anselmi stepped off the busy curb and lumbered into a barren intersection, steering an abrupt left into a narrow, dingy lane obscured even in broad daylight. A rusted, inconspicuous metal door wedged between two trellised windows rose into view, and the mafia disappeared inside. Right outside, a group of children were absorbed in a game of soccer, a cabbage head for a ball, more of the produce piled in hip-height wooden crates along the brick walls. There was the sharp fragrance of herbs and garlic, a restaurant just behind one of the row of back doors.

Maria managed a good fifty or so yards away, observing behind one of those crates. Her chest and mouth heaved for air as she rested her temple against one side of the container, her eyes closed for a brief moment as if everything unfolding had been too much to take in. The cabbage made a loud _bonk_ when a boy inadvertently kicked it into the metal door, and for a harsh second Riza was suddenly afraid for the boy's life. But Anselmi never came out.

Occasionally, Maria would peek her head out and examine the scene, and each time Riza would stand still as a statue at the mouth of the alleyway, peering in and arresting her breath just the same. The sky-high brick wall that obscured her and the soft clip-clop of pedestrians just a block away did nothing to assuage her fear. Out of the blue, Maria stared intensely at the narrow lane across from her, her long neck jutting out in a feverish search. She bolted up then, standing on the balls of her feet, and waved her hand frantically before stooping back down to her haunches once again.

Riza had never met Olivier Armstrong, but her reputation as an uptight and ethical prohibition agent fit her straight back, forward eyes confidence. Her outfit mirrored Anselmi with a long trench coat and wide-leg pants, contrasting Maria's feminine canary dress and ivory pearl necklace. The detective came into the picture and leaned against the crate until she was shoulder to shoulder with Maria. The sturdy figure mouthed something near the accountant's ear, and Riza crouched low on the ground, her ears attuned, picking out their words.

"You sure it's him?" the detective asked. It was a level above a whisper, but Riza could underline the vehemence that leaked out of her strong, gruff voice.

"Yes," Maria answered positively. "He wasn't all that creative with his name. And he looked just like the man in the photo you sent me."

"And Hughes?"

"Still at the office. Anselmi didn't get to him."

"No one saw you leave? We still need you in there."

There was a short pause, but Maria eventually replied, "I don't think so."

Riza slid down to the ground, her mouth open and her parched throat calling for water. Maria was working for Olivier. She should have seen the signs. What a terrible spy she made. Even now, she was too worked up in the truth to see what they were doing. They could have a gun clasped in their hands, a team of bureau agents just around the bend, and a raid would commence a few steps away from her.

"Wait for him to come out. We need to know what he's up to," Olivier commanded. It was clear who was boss with the tone she used. "We don't want to repeat another Hughes. Not enough evidence, my ass."

An amused chuckle traveled quietly in the pungent air, and Riza guessed it was Maria beneath the soft buzzes of the children's laughter. But Olivier didn't seem amused in the slightest.

"What? You support that bastard now too? Turning into _him_, are you?" she accused.

"No, ma'am. You're just very determined is all-" Maria replied.

In the distance, Riza heard the scraping of a brass door. Anselmi must have finished his business. The empty street suddenly grew raucous.

"_Get outta here, you punks! Scram!"_

His accent was perceptibly different than what he had used at the office, his inflection undulating and his R's rolling around the tip of his tongue.

"_Sorry, mister!"_

A door slammed, and everything became quiet. There was no more laughter.

Within seconds the dragging sound of heavy boots picked up, heading in her direction, and it echoed sharper and louder. In alarm, Riza jerked herself up from the ground, considering sprinting in her biting heels for the crowded intersection. Then she realized Anselmi would catch Olivier and Maria hiding behind the cabbage-filled crates on his way back to the streets. There was only one way out, and it was the same way he had traveled to get there.

With her mind roaming for a plan and eyes fixed on the swiftly evolving situation, Riza hurriedly donned on her cloche hat, tipping it downward to cast a shadow over her face. Promptly, she rounded for the alleyway, wishing for the best, praying for their safety. She felt for the folding knife tucked inside her dress pocket. Standing at the ingress, she regarded Olivier and Maria with a glance. The detective's hardened expression morphed into a glare while the accountant stared at her in incredulous shock. Anselmi was there, too, and he now held a leather briefcase in his hand.

Riza blocked the narrow lane and hoped to draw his attention to her. So that he would look at her instead and, by happenstance, miss the sight of the two detectives huddling by the crates in front of him. Her hands shot skyward and Riza clapped garishly, mimicking Hughes' attention-seeking return.

"Time to go home, boys!" Riza bellowed out into the alley, her firm voice reverberating along the high walls.

The boys ignored her, but her shout caught his attention. The hitman withdrew his hair-raising gaze from the street ahead and aimed it towards her. He halted in his steps, blinking disbelievingly at the scene before him. But he continued onward momentarily with his sharp, brown eyes fixed at her, disdain and displeasure darkening them. Riza only implored he would not recognize her in a black overcoat.

The mafia slogged past the warm bodies glued to the wide side of the crate. Olivier inhaled, exhaled, blowing shallow puffs of air, and Maria crouched stock-still with tension palpable in her blue-tinted eyes. The Sicilian still had no clue they were right behind him, less than ten feet away.

The cabbage head the children had been kicking around wheeled past the bureau agents and hit his ankle. One of the boys jogged towards him, bending to pick it up, but Anselmi got to it first and caught sight of the two women. He dropped the produce, and it rolled right in between Riza and the stout man.

Riza couldn't see his expression, but the way he bent lowly and cautiously with one hand on his knee warned her that he must have recognized Maria as the pesky accountant from Hughes-Mustang Company Ltd. Or he knew exactly who Olivier was.

"_Che cazzo è?_" he snarled, one arm raised to unclip the gun in his holster. He studied Olivier, who was gingerly rising to a stand, and hissed, "Now, I don't know any woman who dresses like that unless…"

Hoping her jittery limbs wouldn't tremble her voice, Riza exclaimed, "Liv! Maria! You two are here! I've also come to pick them up." Then she quickly cast her gaze to the puddle underfoot, avoiding Anselmi's glare.

Warily, the mafia turned to her with his gun trained at the ground.

"Which one is your kid, signora?" he growled.

Anselmi wasn't addressing her, but Maria replied in an instant, "Henry. His name is Henry. He's the one wearing the white shirt over there." She flung her arm wildly behind her.

He squinted at the observing children before finding her once more. Riza could see a drip of sweat running down his balding head and vanishing underneath his collar. Her back was probably as soaked as his was. "All the kids are wearing white, signora. They'd just been smeared with shit so it looks brown. So _which one_ is yours?" he asked again.

The boy who had been waiting for his ball hadn't moved, standing on shaky feet to the sideline. But he eventually poked a diffident finger into Anselmi's fat back and pleaded his case, "Mister, can I get that back please?"

"There's more where that came from."

"The cook gave us that one to play with. I don't wanna get my dad in trouble," the child supplicated. He looked like he was about to cry.

"Just give it back to him," Maria intervened. Olivier hadn't said a word, but the hard set of her jaw seemed to repress the hell she would have otherwise unleashed.

"Oh yeah?" the Sicilian mocked.

He settled his briefcase for the cabbage head, weighing it in one hand, and aimed it towards the children like he was pitching baseball. With wide, anticipating eyes, they began to scatter alongside the walls, avoiding the projectile, then Anselmi turned to the boy and glared down at him. Suddenly, he coiled his arm around the boy's neck and drew his gun, pressing it to his temple. The others emitted strangled gasps, the children's quick feet pitter-pattering as they dispersed, a few burrowing under the filthy linen that covered the mountain of cabbages.

In warning, Anselmi cocked his gun and scowled at Olivier. "Your face is familiar. And this means all three of ya are in on it together. You-" he pointed his gun at Riza, "move against the wall."

With her hands in the air, Riza obeyed and shuffled her wobbly legs towards the wall, her back grazing the damp bricks.

"And rest assured, I don't plan on killing the kid if you all rid yourself of your weapons," he added.

Finally, Olivier made a motion to comply. Her baleful eyes never left him, locked on with a vow of retribution, but she reached somewhere beneath her coat and then carefully placed her Colt on the ground. Maria did the same, taking a small pistol out of her thigh holster before glancing at the boy around his arm.

"Now let him go," Olivier demanded. Even in front of a dangerous man, her severe tone never let up.

"Not yet. This lady right here hasn't taken hers out." Roughly, he stuck out his elbow at Riza, choking the boy in the process and making him cough.

"I don't have any weapons on me," Riza lied. The pocket knife hidden in her dress felt heavier than ever.

The hitman was growing irritated. "You think I'm stupid? No one follows a man like me and expects to come out alive without carrying any weapons."

"I promise you I don't have anything on me," Riza asserted. Her eyes flickered to the gun in his hand, and she shifted away from the walls, little by little, an inch closer at a time. There must be something she could do. "Let the boy go and search me. You can see for yourself."

"Now you're just calling me stupid, and I don't appreciate that," he returned with anger, tightening his grip around the boy, who looked ghostly pale underneath the smear of dirt on his face.

Slowly, Anselmi dropped to his knees and picked up his briefcase. He gave it to the boy, instructing him to wrap both of his small arms around it and protect it like he was protecting his own life. But instead of hanging tight to the bag, the boy released it and made an attempt to ditch. The corner edge fell on top of his foot, and Anselmi slipped a string of curses under his breath, his hostage loosening around his hold.

At this, Riza jumped and shoved the boy out of his grasp. He fell with a loud thud, but immediately picked himself back up and dashed for the next street, as far away from the violence as he could manage. The rush of adrenaline numbed her limbs and tingled the tips of her fingers, but Riza pounced at the man and wobbled his stride. Everything happened in the blink of an eye, but the next thing she heard was the shrill of a gunshot. And then she saw Olivier clutching her left shoulder, her face grimacing, red oozing from her khaki coat.

Maria tackled the man by his legs, taking him down to the ground with her on top of him. But he was a big guy, and there was nothing Maria could do when he rolled himself over her. He still held his gun in his grip. Amidst the commotion, Riza scrambled for Olivier's Colt and pointed it at him.

"You hurt her and I'll shoot," Riza threatened with a growl that sounded nothing like herself. The sensation of cold steel on her trigger finger only made everything worse.

It was impossible for Riza to see what he was doing to Maria with her smaller body pinned beneath him. The thought that she might put an early end to one of the subjects she researched so diligently at the university made her heart drum furiously. Everything felt like a dream. A terrible dream. But when the mafia kicked his limbs this way and that, attempting to get up, she saw Maria gasping for air.

"Don't move!" she warned again.

But the hitman took a cautious step backwards, steadily moving away.

"Take the shot, Riza," Olivier ordered from behind her.

Her gun was ready to fire, but Riza couldn't take the shot. The Colt suddenly felt ten times its weight, and he began backing away further and further, seconds away from disappearing around the corner. But it wasn't his time. He wasn't supposed to die until 1929, and Riza was not one to expedite a man's death just because she had been directed to do so. Realizing she wouldn't shoot at him, Anselmi turned around and ran. He was gone faster than Riza imagined his overweight body could move. But soon, her steady gaze flashed with a startle when a bespectacled man emerged in front of her.

"Detective!" Kain Fuery shouted. Running at light speed, he clipped the small pistol he held in his hand back into his belt holster. "You're bleeding!"

"What terrible timing you have," Olivier hissed, the curve of her mouth twitching.

Mindfully, Fuery pressed his handkerchief to her wound and staunched it with a knot around her shoulder. "I'm sorry. I lost track of her on the way here."

With Anselmi's briefcase in her possession, Maria approached the company. She looked angry now. "You're fucking late to the appointment, Fuery."

"Riza, give me the gun," Olivier said, wincing.

But all Riza could do was stare. Stunned, shocked, and awed. What the hell was Kain doing there?

"Are you alright, Riza?" he asked, offering her a small smile. He looked as if he belonged with them. Not at all fazed in the slightest. "I'd give Detective Armstrong the gun, if I were you."

Riza didn't remember handing it over to her, but Olivier had her weapon and flipped the safety off, tucking it back into her shoulder holster. Mutely, she watched the three people volley a stream of information back and forth, beginning with the attempt on Olivier's life and ending with Hughes' communication specialist entering the scene.

Maria huffed through her nose, snarling at the young man, "What took you so damn long, huh? Our suspect's gone and this briefcase and whatever's behind that stupid door are the only leads we've got!"

"Call in the team and have them search the premise. In the meantime-" Olivier turned to confront Kain, "I'm pulling you out of your assignment."

"Wh-why?" Fuery argued.

"I've heard everything from Maria," Olivier stated with insistence. "Clearly, you've sympathized a little too much with Maes Hughes."

He fought and fought, defending his utmost loyalty to the bureau, but her reflective gaze nailed him down as the man who had been too grateful for the Hughes family and would never betray them. Though there had been times she thought him odd. With his boyish look and sincere enthusiasm, Kain Fuery looked as if he could hardly kill a fly. But he knew how to wield a gun, and he knew it well. He had shown her how it was done during one of her pleas for practice. He had fooled her even then, and not once had she considered his involvement with Olivier Armstrong.

And then it struck her.

Fuery was a curious name that popped up once in a scratchy record she had listened to, on loan from the bureau at the behest of her institution. Then there was a monochrome photograph of a band of prohibition agents dressed in their uniforms, a couple of them in plainclothes, assigned to catch perpetrators in the act. 1929 was still a long way away, but as one of the lead investigators in Albert Anselmi's unresolved death, Kain Fuery purportedly scribbled his name in history.

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On the next chapter: Man at War

Fuery escorted her past a series of closed doors that held the sign, "Interview in Progress," and a torrent of anger made his heart pump and muffled his hearing. Riza had her hand clutching onto one shivering arm, the crescents of her nails sinking deep into her flesh, as if the sharp sensation had been preferred over the treatment she had received there. Her gaze settled on the linoleum, and she wouldn't lift it to meet his.

"Riza, what happened?"

Briskly, Roy removed his flat cap and ceased the anxious tremble of his fingers, drawing down on her face to find a set of helpless, brown eyes. Beside her, Fuery curled him a small, conciliatory smile, and Roy had never felt like punching Maes' beloved communication specialist as much as he had wanted to then.


	13. Man at War

A/N: Hope all of you are doing well! We are at the halfway mark, and I'm very excited to write the next few chapters :).

To the guest review on the last chapter, thank you so much! :D

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**Chapter 13: Man at War**

The doctor stepped on the gas of his Studebaker, and the vehicle flew faster than he had ever demanded it to go. It arrived in front of the six-story Edwardian facade in record time. Without wasting another second, Roy jumped out of the car, sprinted up the entrance steps, and reached the lobby. He was promptly greeted by a bearded officer who looked up from his newspaper.

"Can I help you, sir?"

The police precinct looked the same as it had two years ago. It still smelled of coffee and old books, musky and a little like cocoa powder, complete with a hint of mildew along the collection of limestones. The cold, hard interior resembled the imposing outside, and Roy was only relieved he would be standing on the other side of the reflective glass this time around.

"I'm here to pick up Riza Hawkeye," he replied, out of breath.

As they had done two years ago, two officers flanked him right away and ushered him past a succession of high-arched hallways. In one of those hallways, Roy recalled a stark, square room the size of a rat's cage, narrow and confining and disagreeably chilly. The aesthetics had been a hundred shades of spectral white, like an igloo underneath a bigger igloo encircled in a snowy globe. It was unsettlingly quiet, too, as if purposely designed to mentally crumble whoever had been shoved inside.

There, the doctor had been questioned—threatened, when his nerves had kept him mute—all in the name of bringing justice to whoever killed Trisha Elric.

_ "What was your relationship with her?"_

_ "Describe the room where you first found her."_

_ "Do you know who did it?"_

"_Do you know where her sons are now?"_

He had only lied to one question.

The extensive corridor ended, and a less active alcove came into view, tucked at the east wing. They went no farther than twenty steps and reached a section called the "Processing Room," where the ceiling did nothing but press down on him and his thoroughly constructed composure. The same bearded deputy informed him to take a seat in one of the wooden benches along the beige wall and that someone would bring her out shortly.

Roy was not especially good at waiting. At least, not when he had to endure the persistent image of Riza injured from head to toe. Was she hurt? Why was she being so reckless? He trod briskly in circles, though the floor just seemed to swallow the noises of his worried steps. His neckline felt uncomfortably tight, and he sensed the occasional rise of gooseflesh on his skin. He wouldn't stop pacing even when an uptight looking detective trotted past him and cast a wary glance his way as he cut a path to the lavatory across from where he stood.

It had been the hardest for him when he had to collect Trisha's two boys at the Rockbell's two years ago. At eleven and ten, Edward and Alphonse were tough and resilient. More than he had been at that age. Their father was gone, and the children were all Trisha would talk about. The moon had sat high, ruthlessly bright, and Roy begrudged the absence of darkness that he had relied on to obscure his monumental grief. He hadn't known what to say. Words had been his sword and his charm when he needed them, but they were as slippery as a sheet of ice that night.

The several minutes he spent waiting for Riza felt like a year. His toes dug into the edges of his brogues as he continued to drown in his own terrifying conclusions. He constantly despaired for the worst even when he knew he shouldn't be. Just when he thought he would never release his breath, her blonde hair caught the corner of his eyes, and Roy was reduced into a puddle. He really wasn't that far off from his prediction.

Fuery escorted her past a series of closed doors that held the sign, "Interview in Progress," and a torrent of anger made his heart pump and muffled his hearing. Riza had her hand clutching onto one shivering arm, the crescents of her nails sinking deep into her flesh, as if the sharp sensation had been preferred over the treatment she had received there. Her gaze settled on the linoleum, and she wouldn't lift it to meet his.

"Hello Doc. Thanks for coming to pick her up," Fuery began confidently, though his voice rustled with diffidence as he gazed up at the doctor. "I would've taken her back myself, but I really don't think she wants to go back to the office… nor do I think Mr. Hughes would want to see me again..."

He ignored the boy and ventured to the more pressing matter at hand. Briskly, Roy removed his flat cap and ceased the anxious tremble of his fingers, drawing down on her face to find a set of helpless, brown eyes. Riza was distressed; it was clear as day. But he took solace in the fact that she didn't seem hurt physically. Beside her, Fuery curled him a small, conciliatory smile, and Roy had never felt like punching Maes' beloved communication specialist as much as he had wanted to then.

"Riza, what happened?" Roy asked. Her appearance was rumpled, the light blue skirt smeared a muddy brown, muss on her usually perfect bob.

"I'm fine."

Her reply was curt, her mien emotionless.

But Roy wasn't giving up.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she nodded. The doctor stilled on her face, and when she saw this her eyes softened. Wiltingly, she begged, "Can we go home, Roy? Please?"

"Will you tell me what happened at home?" he asked again, gently this time. Carefully. He hoped she would relent.

Her fingers trailed up to clutch the sleeve on his elbow, but the way her arms and head dangled wearily made him long to rush her home without so much as an answer. Riza looked frightened and relieved, confused and upset all at once. Roy didn't understand where one emotion came from and another intersected, and when her silence lingered immutably, he became saturated with fear. Weighty and overwhelming. Too much. Riza was a woman unpersuaded, and she would share her story in her own time, however long that may be.

There weren't many instances where Roy wished he had Aunt Chris beside him. It had been about a show of independence and self-reliance when he moved out of her household, afforded his own home, and held his own job. Roy was always a child around her even when she never treated him like one, and everything he had accomplished was his way of saying she didn't need to worry anymore.

But he felt like a child now and, for once, he wanted her to worry. The unpredictable current was growing ever treacherous, dragging away the woman he loved, further and further. He needed Aunt Chris to tell him how to pull her out to safety. He needed her to tell him that Riza would be fine.

He needed her to tell him Riza wouldn't share the same fate as Trisha.

"Doc, can I speak with you a moment?" Fuery asked, stopping at his side. There was a newfound affliction in the detective's eyes when he spoke to him. Perhaps it was guilt.

Back at the office, Breda had informed him that Fuery was a "snitch" and a "traitor," giving Roy a brief rundown of the goings-on he had received from the Bureau. Roy learned that snitches and traitors deserved to be shot in Heymans Breda's books. If Maes' head of security could feel that passionate about retribution, Roy didn't want to imagine what kind of punishment Maes would inflict on the younger man. The mobster would be furious, to say the least.

Bitterly, Roy asked, "What is it?"

"It's about Maes- Ah, I mean, Mr. Hughes."

His voice surged with accusation at the mention of his brother's name, "Were you the one who told Olivier that Gracia is pregnant?"

"Yes, but it was all a guess. No one told me," he explained, as though that fact would dampen the pain of betrayal. Fuery bowed his head, remorse seemingly floating about him. "I figured that she is, considering how often she used the restroom and everything. I just put two and two together, you see."

Still, his chest flared hot at the admission, and Roy decided he'd settle for a punch. A hard one. He coated his fist with amassed outrage and frustration and threw it roughly, connecting with the bone of the detective's cheek with a smacking sound. Fuery fell bottom first to the ground and rubbed at his reddening skin to soften the blow. Behind him, Roy heard Riza yell his name, reproach and admonition. He felt a forceful grip pulling on his arm—Riza's—but Roy had little care right then and there and rebuffed it with a shove of his elbow.

"I suppose I deserve that," Fuery grimaced. Without so much of a grunt, the detective turned spy rose up to one knee and righted himself. His gaze was more vehement than before. "I still need to talk to you about Mr. Hughes and what happened today."

Riza, in her curiosity, hovered a glance in their direction. Roy could feel the suspense climbing as she awaited his answer. Imperceptibly, the doctor nodded his agreement, but not before he sent her to find his parked car just outside the building.

"Wait for me in the car, Riza," he urged. "I'll be there as soon as I'm done."

But her insistence swelled around her. In her stern look, in her steady voice. "I really think I should stay and listen, too." He wouldn't budge, silent. She tried again, this time pleading with her hands threaded together. "Roy, please. You know I can provide insight into this."

From the way Fuery slackened and puffed a resigned sigh, it was evident he had repeated this detail more than once. "As far as we know, he merely impersonated a Bureau agent and nothing more."

"I know he's responsible, Kain," Riza maintained with a passion. "Please let me help you."

"No can't do, Riza. But I promise you we will investigate him."

The friendly use of her first name unhinged Roy more than it should. Had Fuery told her things she was better off without? Riza was no Trisha, but both women possessed the same constitutions when it came to righting wrongs. They were both stubborn and foolhardy, heedless of their own safety when matters involving the welfare of others came into play. They had become _her_ downfall, too.

"Who is this person you're talking about?" Roy inquired.

Fuery turned to him. "The person Riza was chasing. She mentioned the man's connection to the Endicott shooting, but we've had no luck with evidence."

The connection to the shooting was enough for Roy to demand her gone from this conversation. If his relationship with Riza would thrust her deeper into the enterprise of Maes Hughes and the Sicilians, then Roy preferred her a million miles away from here and a thousand lifetime away from him. A high payout meant a high risk, and his brother's business was exactly that. Autumn had poured over Central Park for a few weeks now, but the temperature inside grew increasingly hot, itching the loop around his collar again. He damned Maes Hughes, and he damned Gracia, too; he was not going to allow Riza to meddle in their affairs any longer.

There would be no repeat of Trisha Elric.

With a hard focus and a firm-set mouth, Roy steered her aside. He glared her down as he would a disobedient child and let his anxiety unfetter him into a bad-tempered brute. "I told you to wait in the car, Riza," he hissed. "Or did you prefer I leave you here at the police station where they can jail you for having no papers?"

She was shocked, clearly, and it seemed to have taken the words out of her mouth.

"Wait in the car." She didn't move. "Do I need to say it again?" he warned.

Finally, she stammered, "But- but Maes and Gracia-"

"No more of that. I'm going straight to Maes's after I drop you off at home. I'm telling him to stay away from you. Far, far away."

Her rage was reaching the point of combustion, red faced and clenched teeth, angled up at him in rebellion. "You know I can help!" she protested.

The urge to yell back was catching up to him. He pressed his fingertips to the heels of his hands, reminding himself to breathe, to stay in control. "No. You're done."

"I'm not yours to command, Roy," she seethed. "I can do what I want, and what I want to do is help Maes and Gracia."

"You are mine to command as long as you live under my roof."

"No." She shook her head, unabashed. "I have to help them."

And the reservoir to his mounting emotions could no longer keep the deluge at bay. "I think you've helped enough, Riza!"

"I promised my grandfather!"

"Your grandfather is not here, Riza. He's dead," he growled, underlining each word with a bite that aroused the soft hairs on his own arms. No more, he decided. No more succumbing to her demands and supplications if it meant he would keep her safe. Remorse began to invade, but it remained on the precipice as Roy justified his intentions.

The sweep of her long lashes fluttered and opened in slow disbelief, uncovering woeful brown eyes that turned bleaker and glossier with her every blink. Riza seemed more sad than angry now, a woman overshadowed by a giant rain cloud as she took one stumbling step back, two, and then three. Clumsily, she turned in the direction of the long hallway that took him there and scurried away with her head down. In that moment, Roy wished he could take it all back.

"Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph, what have I done?" he croaked miserably, mimicking Maes at his most vulnerable state. He scrubbed at his face as though it would undo the realization that finally overtook. Remorse reared its unpleasant head and nestled itself between his ribcage.

What had he done?

"Um, Doc…?"

It took him a sobering second before he remembered where he was. He swallowed the boulder in his throat and returned weakly, his back to the inquiring man. Fuery could not see him like that. He wiped at his face and eventually confronted the bespectacled agent.

"Yes?"

"I won't take too much of your time, Doctor, but I should warn you that Detective Armstrong is growing restless. She will do everything in her power to bring Mr. Hughes down."

Roy knew this day would come. But between a contrite heart and a grieving mind, the news only left him frozen and without a thought. He'd have to think hard before he could process the information at hand. He tried to blink away his stupor, as well as could be.

"And what do you suggest I do?" the doctor rasped.

"I might be able to persuade her," Fuery replied, hands clasped behind his back. The detective started to swing himself to and fro, leaning backward on the heel of his boots and then forward. He seemed just as fidgety as Roy felt. "I'm planning on negotiating a deal with Armstrong. To get her off your brother's back."

Listless, Roy simply stared at the ridiculous man. He couldn't even muster an ounce of incredulity that he knew was there. What an absurd proposition.

"And _why_ would you do that?"

"Well, I've worked for Mr. Hughes for a while now. I know he's not all... _bad_ and... _cruel_-" he dampened the edges of the words with a mumble, as if afraid such illustration might offend the doctor, "-as she makes him out to be. If anything, I realized his ambition has always been for his family. I can relate to that, in a way. Mine's always been about helping my Da and Ma. That's why I..."

With a flushed face and a flapping mouth, Fuery illuminated his analysis of Maes and his drawn-out plan that seemed to have been the sole thing he devised in the last three years he had worked for the mobster. Though as Roy's mind jostled for a sincere, meaningful apology to Riza, the detective's meticulous presentation merely came to him in short bursts of phrases: a good person; generous to the community; it was only fair; one mafia for another. Roy only caught the tail end of it, and by all means, that was everything he needed to hear.

"...I'm going to see if Detective Armstrong would be open to shift her agenda from Maes Hughes to Frankie Yale."

On impulse, Roy's restive hand trekked up and combed through his mop of untidy hair. The merciless pounding in his heart had only departed, but it returned hastily and began to knock again. Maes's communication specialist must be out of his mind. But when Roy looked up from his consideration, the man just stood there, watching. Waiting. He had ceased the shuffling of his feet and challenged the doctor's uncertain gaze with a flicker of genuinity.

"It will release Mr. Hughes and his family from the Bureau's wanted list once and for all. But it will only work with your help."

Roy gnawed on his lips. The detective _was_ crazy.

"So, how about it, Doc?" Fuery asked again, his large, doe-like eyes eager for an answer.

The pummeling at the back of his skull felt harsher and more unforgiving than before. Roy didn't know how to answer, and he told Fuery just as much.

As the young agent escorted him down to the lobby, Roy found Riza sitting in the front seat of his car. She hadn't fled as he feared she would, but with one turn in his direction as he descended the concrete steps, Roy could see that he had hurt her more than he'd imagined.

* * *

On the next chapter: _Bua na cainte_

"Tell her how smart and pretty she is. Every girl _loves_ to hear _that_," Edward said and rolled his eyes, as though appalled that the doctor hadn't even ventured such an obvious route.

"Yes, yes!" Alphonse exclaimed in agreement. "You can also tell her how much she means to you. Say, I really care about you-" and he swirled around to his brother and nudged him on his side, "right, Ed?"

The older brother's face turned beet red as it happened, which made Roy wonder if he was admitting what his boastful mouth hadn't babbled. He would have to probe that out of the boy later.


	14. Bua na cainte

A/N: It feels like it's been too long since the last chapter, but here it is! My new job has been keeping me busy, but now that a month has passed, I'm hoping things will get better and I'll have some free time to write. Enjoy, and I hope your weekend is going great. :)

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**Chapter 14:**_** Bua na cainte**_

It was two weeks until the first of November, and the slate stoned Orphan Asylum sat robust and quiet between St. Andrew's Place and Kingston Avenue. Dry and yellowing patches of grass swept the lawn, dotted with clumsily carved pumpkins along the perimeter. And even with the sure prediction of rain clouds and a frosty morning temperature, the outdoor wrought-iron benches already held steadfast conversations and a few childish games.

The number of children at the Orphan Asylum had only grown with the arrival of winter. Half the building had been empty in the summer. Now, the first two floors were jam packed with girls, the one above it with boys, all between the ages of four and seventeen. Most weren't without parents. Rather, their children were hauled away when cases of opioid addictions and illnesses of the mind had proven them to be negligent.

Since the end of the Great War, the doctor had made the visit an annual pilgrimage. If the flu pandemic from the last decade had taught him anything, it was to instill the proper protocol of an early and thorough check up for every person at the institution. The administration of multivitamin pills to boost vitality and instructions of hygiene care for the nursing staff seemed to do the trick. And year after year, Roy would ask himself: why go through the trouble?

Georgie came careening along the wall and nuzzled his small body at Roy's side. The child stretched open the slit of his linen pockets. "Doc, can I have some more of those pills?"

Roy glanced at the row of cots under the Gothic-arched nave, counting the huddle of murmuring girls in the far corner. "Who else do you have left?"

"Mary, Dorothy, and Helen. Mary is the same age as me, and she also likes to read books, just like me. I told her I will lend her _Doctor Dolittle_. Or maybe I will read it with her. I brought it in my bag."

At this, Roy turned and affixed an amused smile at Georgie, who was clutching a self-conscious, half grin on his rosy complexion. His glasses slid down the slope of his nose once he rectified himself, and he demurely thumbed the bridge back to position.

"You didn't talk to any of them last year. You said girls have cooties," Roy reminded him as he crouched down to his height. "What changed?"

His tiny, O-shaped mouth stumbled with a stammer. And then he sighed, with a hint of distress that a boy his age normally flourished when asked about a girl, and admitted, "I'm all grown up now, Doc. And then eventually I have to marry. I have to start treating a lady like a lady. Talk to them and such. Be polite."

The doctor couldn't help himself and let out a soft chuckle, "Who told you that?"

"Alphonse." And then Georgie poked his short finger into the doctor's shoulder. "But Alphonse said you told him that. He said it's best that I know about it, too."

Leave it to the twelve year-old to spread some good sense. Carefully, Roy counted three oblong pills and placed them in Georgie's hand, touching the spare stethoscope wreathed around the boy's neck. "Right. Well, here are three pills. One for each of the ladies. And have you used this on the girls? You have to ask for their permission first, and only use it on the spot above their shoulder blades."

"Yes, I've used it on some of the girls. The older boys from this morning didn't think I was a real doctor, so they wouldn't let me," he grumbled.

"That's alright, Georgie. Maybe next year they will let you."

Georgie nodded dejectedly.

"And? What's the verdict?"

"They sound healthy," Georgie replied assuredly, pounding his own chest in confirmation. The doctor would still make his rounds and examine them himself, though he wouldn't want to discourage the boy from exhibiting a more prominent role on an opportune time like today. Roy spun the boy around by his shoulders and gave him a gentle nudge on his back.

"Alright then. Off you go, Doctor Grumman. Make sure the girls receive their supplements."

At the appellation, Georgie snickered and elicited a piggish snort. His playful hand trailed the uneven walls as he jogged back to the girls, who were kindling an unrestrained giggle that made Roy wonder if Riza's grandmother had been wooed by the same generous, boyish charm. Nearby, Riza hovered over a cot with a recumbent child, her hand brushing the girl's blonde bangs, her mouth smiling. The girl smiled back. As he watched, the burgeoning ache beneath his ribs managed to send a shiver down his limbs, even when he desperately tried not to let it dwell.

Riza had expressed a lasting interest when Alphonse spread the news of their visitation to the orphanage. Roy was only too happy to discuss his plans for the trip until she reminded him, implicitly, that they still weren't on the best of terms. He had proposed a picnic lunch, and she had responded with an icy glare that said _everything_.

In the midst of uneasy shuffling of feet and clinking of silverware, Alphonse had advised her to observe and learn from her youthful grandfather on that day. Entertain the children with small talks of the holidays and snow if they seemed bored and lonely. Her face broke into a smile then, so endearing and so lovely, and Roy was helplessly hanging onto the fact that she hadn't rejected his idea of a picnic.

Alphonse materialized beside him, his expression a mixture of innocence and guile. "Why are you staring at her, Doc?"

"I'm not staring, Alphonse," he protested.

"Then you must be admiring."

Since when did Alphonse possess such a smart mouth? "Right, yes. I suppose it's quite obvious that I was staring."

The doctor's daily attempt at an apology had merely invited astute glances from the boy. Roy knew he was well aware of what was going on between him and Riza.

"Why don't you go talk to her? Looking won't fix anything," Alphonse hedged, scrubbing his nonexistent stubble with the calm of a sage.

"You know _why_ I can't talk to her," he murmured irritatingly, feeling the sudden weight of this unexpected role reversal. Roy didn't make it a habit to be lectured by someone half his age.

"Then you're not trying hard enough," Edward added cheekily. Occupying the space beside him, he shoved a handful of leftover pills into the doctor's jacket pocket without the courtesy of asking. He sniffled, as if the damp air inside hadn't agreed with his fitness. "Riza is not as mad as you think."

The corners of his eyes creased with suspicions. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, she's mad, but not _that_ mad. If she were, she wouldn't be here today. How could she bear to look at your ugly face after all?" His shoulders peaked nonchalantly, his smug mouth coiling with a self-satisfied grin.

"Ha-ha. Very funny, Edward," he sneered.

Riza approached, and the soft clicks of her sensible heels parted his concentration as she made a narrow beeline for him. The drums in his ears pulsed with anticipation. He was pale with dread at the thought of what _would_ happen. He was excited. And his heart hastened when she stood before him with their food basket dangling around her forearm, Georgie's hand held in hers. The lure of her smile made his bones leap with hope, but she dashed it completely when she abruptly turned to the boys flanking each of his sides.

"Edward, Alphonse, will you be joining Georgie and me for lunch in the garden?" And then she darted an apprehensive glance at Roy, fleetingly. "Or will you be staying with the doctor?"

Alphonse was the first to reply. "I'll join you, Miss Riza. I just need to wash first."

"I might eat with a few of the boys," Edward shrugged noncommittally. "They asked me earlier."

Her hand went into the basket, and then she held it out. "Okay then, here's your sandwich. And a bottle of hot sauce, as usual. You can toss the bottle when you're done. I'll buy more tomorrow."

Edward took it and nodded appreciatively. "Thanks."

There was an interlude of hesitation as Riza lingered, purposeless now. Beside her, Georgie turned up an inquiring glance. Her appearance no longer retained the same condemnation with her bottom lip snagged between a line of perfect white teeth. Her palm smoothed down the length of her skirt, one finger twirling with the pleated fabric, and her other hand gripped her grandfather vise-like as if he'd vanish without a trace had she done otherwise. The specter of a frown flitted past her wooden face, and a prickly sensation from within made Roy grimace with remorse all over again.

He forced down the audible clanging in his temple and reached for her agitated hand. "Riza-"

She pushed it away. "Later, Roy."

If his intention had been to send her away, then he was lamentably successful. Her angry march towards the outdoor garden with her grandfather in tow was soothed with an occasional bow as Georgie looked up and, without a doubt, peppered her with questions of what had just happened.

"She'll get over it in no time," Edward chirped easily.

But the constriction in his chest was still there, a tightrope. The doctor dragged himself to the consoling fold of a wicker chair tucked into the stony walls. Mutely, Edward and Alphonse followed, their subdued footfalls behind him. He sat. With both palms up towards the sky, he sunk a muffled groan into his cold hands. Roy didn't care that both his wards were witness to such a dramatic gesture. He didn't care for much at the moment.

Alphonse reluctantly patted him on the shoulder and lowered himself to the vacancy next to him. "Everything will be alright. She didn't say 'no,' she said '_later_,'" he emphasized.

Perching on the edge of his chair, Edward sniffed and spoke with his gaze forward, golden eyes blazing with mischief. "Doc here really needs a lesson on how to woo women. That was a pathetic attempt, Doc. You don't just grab her hand like that. _Especially_ when she looked like she wanted to kill _you_."

Roy huffed a mirthless chuckle. Of course he'd be on the receiving end of Edward's blustery ridicule after an embarrassing scene like that. He crossed his forearms and challenged the boy with a peeved stare. "Fine, then. Tell me how it should be done."

Edward's uneaten sandwich found the corner of an empty bench, and he confronted Roy with a look that said he knew more than he let on. He cleared his throat with intent. "Tell her how smart and pretty she is. Every girl _loves_ to hear _that_," Edward said and rolled his eyes, as though appalled that the doctor hadn't even ventured such an obvious route. He emulated the doctor then, sitting spine-straight with his arms folded before him.

An effortless smile stretched across the doctor's mouth, and the rope mercifully loosened its bind. What was he expecting from a thirteen year-old boy after all?

"Yes, yes!" Alphonse exclaimed in agreement. "You can also tell her how much she means to you. Say, I really care about you-" and he swirled around to his brother and nudged him on his side, "right, Ed?"

The older brother's face turned beet red as it happened, which made Roy wonder if he was admitting what his boastful mouth hadn't babbled. Edward swallowed a lump, concealing his shy comportment with a turn of his head in the opposite direction. His alleged confidence with women must have come from somewhere, Roy surmised. He would have to probe that out of the boy later.

"I see you both have had experiences with women," Roy noted casually, surveying for a change in Edward's thoroughly ruddy complexion. The teen was revealing more and more even as he frantically clung to his silence.

"We were at Winry's house when she started crying about her parents," Alphonse divulged, his hands roaming animatedly in front of him. "Brother was telling her to calm down, saying war does that to families everywhere, but when that didn't work he told her she was the most bea-"

"Al, I think you've said enough," Ed intervened before more could be said. His cheeks had taken on a burnished glow now. "You should go find Riza. Those sandwiches don't taste good soggy."

"But-" he wanted to argue.

Edward shooed his younger brother, kicking a foot into the air and gesticulating towards the glass panel doors across the nave. "Go. She's waiting," he said, disguising his discomfort in the form of a few wise words. "Never keep a girl waiting."

"But-"

With a glare at his brother, resolute and stubborn, Edward claimed victory. The younger brother traipsed through a collection of trailing gapes, the girls blatantly staring, with admiration or curiosity Roy didn't know. A few simpered and giggled as Alphonse passed them with his head down in defeat. He paid them no attention. With the tattletale out of the way, Edward puffed a contented air through his pursed lips and leaned against the plaited slats, his linked fingers behind his head.

"Are you really eating with the boys here?" Roy asked hopefully. He further inspired ease into their shared spaces with a hearty chuckle, relaxing his back into the curve of his own chair. "Have I finally got through to you after all these years?"

"No, I'm not eating with them. And before you say anything, it's not that I don't want to eat with them. I was only telling Riza that because Al said he was going to keep her company."

There was a second-long marvel that hung over the doctor's head like the first dusting of snow, astonishing, whisking that unbidden smile whether he wished it or not. This was Edward's roundabout way of saying he wanted to keep him company, Roy knew. And he really couldn't stop smiling. Too few instances like this that he could count them with his digits.

"So, what's the deal with you and Riza anyway? Are you two chummy?"

"If by chummy you mean we're together, then no, we're not."

"But you kissed her, didn't you? Did she kiss you back?" he continued brazenly.

And still, his presumptuous ward hadn't spared him his usual candor. But the doctor was too tired of keeping everything guarded, his thoughts and emotions and inclinations, as he often would. Nothing he'd done had proved fruitful so far. His hot breath whistled past the parting of his lips, and so he bared it, this one time, and allowed the boy to peel and ply the truth out of him.

"Yes, I did. And yes, she did."

"So why not make it official?" the boy suggested. "She already lives with us anyway."

He licked his lips and ran his teeth along the pillowy flesh, unsure how to answer. "It's... not that simple."

Edward shrugged. "Well, it sure isn't complicated. You like her, and she likes you. A fight or two will happen along the way, but you move on. Adults sure have a way of making things more complicated than they really are."

For a while Roy simply roosted there with a thin slit of scouring eyes, taking in comprehension. "Huh. Aren't you the wise one today. You and Alphonse both. But no, it's not that I haven't tried to apologize. She just dismissed it every time."

"Hmm yeah, I can see why you're struggling. Riza is pretty stubborn," the teenager added with a mien of resigned acceptance. "Are you sad?"

"Yes, sad, I suppose, but also worried and scared. I'm scared she'd get herself in trouble," he concluded.

"Trouble...?"

There was hesitance in the boy's prying, which carried the doctor's gaze up and away from the polished floor. He looked at Edward, solemnly, making him understand.

"If something happens to her, I don't know what I'd do with myself. I'm trying to keep her away from trouble, but once she's set her mind to something there is no convincing her otherwise."

Unexpectedly, Edward withered under his watch. He shifted and squirmed into the chair that seemed to swallow him up. The lines of his shoulders quivered. "Like my mom... you mean?" he croaked.

Roy was stunned for a minute. He hovered a tentative stare at Edward, whose knees began to shake. Fear filled him like a deluge, cold and white and violent. How was he to answer?

In his head, his voice was hardly a whisper, but when he spoke, it was a crystalized conviction. "I promised myself I wouldn't let something like that happen again."

For a while there were no words exchanged. The boy tucked his knees into his chest, taking it all in. Even in the constant cacophony of the orphanage coming to life, lunch hour a celebrated time of the day, Roy only heard Edward's silence and his own jumbling musings. One emotion battled another, compelling to take over, but in the end, it was still fear. He was afraid of what Edward would say and do. What if Edward left? What if he still hated him?

At last, Edward shattered the high rampart between them. He passed Roy a knowing look. A look that aroused hope in the midst of a broken world. "I know mom only did what she did because she cared about you and Mr. Hughes. You didn't ask her to do anything."

"Are you saying..." he gasped. Roy was still teetering from the gravity of Edward's admission. His mind pricked him with a moment of uncertainty, and eloquence had become too difficult a task. But gravity had a way of bringing him back down, steadying him, even through the clamoring of his heartbeat. "Do you mean that you don't hate-"

"I don't see you helping out Mr. Hughes anymore like before. You're staying away. It's okay," Edward finished in a clipped note. And then he swung an encouraging grin then, cursory, but the effect was everlasting. He propelled himself out of his seat. "I think I'm going to join Riza after all. You're not much company these days."

Swiping his now soggy sandwich from the nearby bench, Edward crossed the travertine with a scrape of his boots, his back straight and shoulders square. He didn't look back. The doctor remained in his seat, observing, tilting his head in reflection as he watched the boy leave, and he noticed. Edward had grown tall since he last remembered.

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A/N: I'm in the process of condensing the number of future chapters (no worries, the content will remain the same but perhaps each one chapter will be longer than usual), so there is no snippet of Chapter 15. But, I can tell you the title is "The Parting of Time," and Riza and Roy's relationship will be the main focus next. Thank you for reading :).


	15. The Parting of Time

A/N: I'm trying to be good about posting bi-weekly, so it is here! My favorite chapter to write and think about! So far, anyway. I hope you're all staying healthy and safe. Enjoy :)

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**Chapter 15: The Parting of Time**

"See that building there? That's my house!"

Her finger remained afloat, pointing defiantly, as though the incessant combination of gesturing and exclaiming would make her declaration any truer. At her side, Georgie stood still with the blankest expression on his pink-cheeked face. His feet shifted uneasily above the pock-marked concrete, his large eyes bound to the rundown tenement held together by coils of wire fence and wide wooden planks.

Finally, her grandfather muttered, "But no one lives there. It looks scary, and I don't think it's safe."

"There isn't much now," Riza inferred, hiking back up to a stand, one hand resting on her hip. "But in a few years, someone rich is going to buy it and remodel the entire thing."

"Well, if you say so," Georgie acquiesced. He rolled his shoulders where the strap of his leather satchel perched broad and bulky over his tiny body.

Several steps behind them, Roy stopped to survey the block, the rough grain of construction sands crunching under his feet. He shielded the orange wink of the dawn with a hand on his forehead, hovering a curious watch. A waft of autumn wind billowed his tweed coat and swirled past them with a procession of dried leaves curled around the edges. Riza turned to the umberstone facade and found the third row of the black, vacant windows again. It was where her bedroom used to be, seventy-five years into the future. Here, it was merely an abandoned structure.

"This is where you lived?" Roy asked hesitantly. He shuffled closer to their side, cautious, as if fearing her wrath.

But the strong grasp of nostalgia coupled with a strange sense of yearning eclipsed any discomfort between them. Riza nodded pensively. "East Village at its finest. It won't see gentrification until the late 80's."

With both hands clutching the bands over his shoulders, Georgie announced in a shout, the slant of his button nose perked up at Riza. "Oh! If you lived there, that means you must know how to fight. This place looks haunted and full of bad people. You know how to fight. Right, Riza?"

"My grandfather taught me how to shoot. He said that's one way of defending myself."

"Did he also teach you how to use a sword? Zorro has a sword," little Georgie murmured.

Roy laughed, a sweet, disjointed sound among the dissonant whistles of ferries across the waterway. He bowed down to her grandfather, who rose just slightly above the doctor's waist, and ruffled his neatly pompadoured blond hair.

"No one defends themselves with a sword anymore, Georgie," Roy explained. "Nowadays, it is a form of art more than anything, and one only takes it up as a hobby. To look dashing, I suppose."

Georgie groaned, "Looking dashing won't make the bad people go away."

"No, it won't," Roy affirmed with a smile, shaking his head.

"Then what if Riza doesn't have a gun with her? How is she going to fight back? She doesn't have a gun with her now, does she?"

"If it helps, I did take a full year's worth of self-defense class sometime ago," Riza added, unable to resist a grin at his antics.

This seemed to appease the child, and Georgie bobbed his head agreeably, a conduct that belied his callow age. "Good. Then I don't have to worry about you."

"Do you worry about me, Georgie?" she asked. Her grandfather might not know the full extent of their relationship, but his well-meaning concern made her feel warm and cared just the same.

His lips flattened into a thin strip. He thought long and hard before he replied, "Sometimes. But when Doc is around, not really. He's bigger than me, so I think he can save you if you get in trouble."

She spied the doctor's reluctant glimpse of her. His watchful dark eyes roved between hopeful and downcast. She'd seen it too often in recent days. Remorse had a way of making itself known, even in the absence of words.

Though Riza wasn't without guilt either. She understood his feelings too clearly. If Roy had done what she had done, she would bellow a mouthful of reprimand, too. But she kept her distance from him tirelessly, and her mind pressed her to deny, reject, and contradict what he had said to her that day at the precinct.

Because if she hadn't, then everything he said remained true.

"We should hurry if we want to get there by eight," Roy prodded, moving her grandfather along. He turned to her and offered a twitch of a timid smile, asking her to accede without speaking. He wanted to get going, though there was plenty of time still. Surely Roy could spare another minute for her to wallow in fond memories. "Mrs. Anderson may not be as lenient as Mrs. Grumman when it comes to punctuality," he continued.

Georgie dragged his feet against the pavement, kicking loose gravel that stood in the way of his zigzagging path. He glared up at the doctor. "How come _Mutti_ said I need a tutor? I study just fine with her at home."

"Your mother is busy now with her new job. Besides, you will meet other children your age at Mrs. Anderson's. That's fun, isn't it?"

"Then why not just send me to school?" the child grumbled, but he didn't stop walking.

Riza slipped her hand into Georgie's, assuaging, sheltering, a gesture that had become second nature ever since she met her youthful grandfather. Playfully, perfunctorily, he swung their arms forward and back, making a game out of it.

"School year starts in August. Next year, you will be able to attend school," Roy reasoned. "Didn't you say you wanted to be a doctor, Georgie? Doctors need all the knowledge they can get."

Still, disdain puckered his precious little mouth, and he stared fiercely ahead. But Georgie ceased all talks, guarding his thoughts to himself, and resumed the swinging of her arm and his, over and over, until his scowl turned into a relaxed beam. They strolled in peaceful company for another half mile, ten full minutes feeling like two, and arrived at a daunting, black door ensconced by a freshly painted wooden portico; a pretty bloom of purple hydrangeas in a terracotta pot was the sole welcoming aspect of the house.

The doctor knocked, and Riza held her grandfather at her side just a few steps behind him. A grim looking woman in her forties emerged. The severity of her gaze was as sharp as the austerity of her lofty home, amplified by the narrow, round spectacles that dwelled on her beak-like nose. Ah, so this was Mrs. Anderson. As an adult, her grandfather had moaned about her no-nonsense, pragmatic lessons, as well as the five fat tabbies she had babied while the children pored over their math, history, and science books.

"She can't be that bad, grandpa," Riza had chuckled then, patting his back with sympathy. At eighty, the retired pediatrician was in tip-top shape, sturdy with an unobstructed gait and a ramrod posture. He wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. "You still learned a lot from her, I'm sure."

"She was horrible," he had insisted, challenging his granddaughter with that sprightly nod and a dash of his mischievous wink.

"You still became what you wanted to be, so she must have done her job."

"I was there for almost two years before Doc decided I should go to a proper school instead. I want to believe he saw the misery in my eyes every time he took me," Grumman narrated ruefully. "He convinced my mother soon after, and I ended up going to the same school as the kids around my neighborhood the following year. I had a grander time then."

Impulsively, Riza motioned closer to the masterful narrator, craving for more, needing to feed the intoxicating spark in her chest at every mention of the enigmatic doctor. "Doctor Mustang took you to Mrs. Anderson's everyday?" she asked, hoping to wheedle more of Roy Mustang's impressive saga out of the old man.

"He did whenever your great grandmother was too busy working. But it wasn't always the doctor who took me to Mrs. Anderson's since the clinic was more often demanding than not."

"Who else would take you?"

"Oh, you know. A friend. A woman friend," he had answered noncommittally. Then he shrugged when Riza sat there waiting, and she knew this part of the story had come to an end.

She had wanted to know more about her. This woman friend. Naturally, her grandfather would color his refusal with a false exhaustion that would make her give in each time. And then it was suddenly time to tuck in for the night for the both of them.

But then and there, George Grumman hadn't eluded her presence. He hadn't feigned that garish yawn to get her to stop. Instead he had gazed into his granddaughter's eyes with a crooked smile, wistful and knowing. With his aging palm, he wreathed one side of her face and caressed her cheek with the pad of a calloused thumb. "You look so much like her now. I didn't think I would ever see you again."

It took Riza much too long to realize, and her heart turned brittle at the realization.

Everything came together like the connecting glow of lost stars, the forgotten Serpentarius ascertained. And each blue glimmer took shape and became a visible, unrelenting constellation before her eyes. She was a part of the past as much as she was a part of the future. What she knew of time—of history and its former splendor—mattered little now. She was where she belonged. Her knees would have buckled if she hadn't clung onto her pint-sized grandfather.

Knowing Georgie's suffering under the guidance of Mrs. Anderson made it harder for her to give him up. Her grip on his shoulders tensed when the tutor's thunderous command called him forward. Her grandfather eyed her carefully, picking out hints of distress in her hardened lines. Eventually Riza let go, though with reluctance, and the tall, formidable woman ushered him inside her house. Mrs. Anderson announced a non-negotiable pick up time of three o'clock as she bid farewell.

More than anything, Riza wanted to curl up in bed and ponder the days that seemed paved and set out before her. She walked in silence, sensing her toes coil beneath a leaden body as she assembled moments in which her grandfather had given her just a little more—the extra suggestion, the undeniable clues cleverly weaved into a decade's worth of storytelling. Her mind retrieved dozens. Instances in which he had considered her like an old dear friend, seeing far more than she was seeing in the spaces between their twenty-nine and eighty-three years.

If only she had understood it then.

"There's something I want to show you." Roy pulled her out of her reverie. The lengthening stride of his legs caught up to her. He proffered a hand and, in her lack of coherence, Riza accepted it all too readily.

Winter was sooner to visit in East Village. Icy wind nipped at her nose and cheeks, and the white mist that had encapsulated them parted to reveal quilts of grey clouds and the telltale signs of rain.

Roy led her up St. Marks Place, four blocks away from Mrs. Anderson's house of horrors, his footfalls beating against the rapidly dappling concrete. He picked up speed. When he finally came to a halt, a little out of breath, they stood in front of a beige-painted brick house brightened with a neat line of well-manicured shrubbery ascending a set of marble stairs.

Slipping his hand into the pocket of his trousers, Roy skimmed through a circle of jingling keys. He murmured to himself, "It's been a while, but I know it's one of these silver ones..."

Riza peered at the doctor's broad back a couple steps above and, diffidently, tugged at the hem of his coat. He whisked around instantly, giving her a bewildered jolt that told Riza he still harbored unease about their weeks-old predicament. It was to be expected, she surmised. After all, she hadn't allowed him a moment to express his regrets.

"Roy," she rasped, still clutching at the fabric.

A pair of expectant eyes found hers, waiting.

For a time, they remained statuesque with dribbles of rain blotting black inks onto their shoulders.

She had to propel the words out when obstinacy held her back. "Roy, I'm sorry."

His gaze softened, and the doctor smiled at her sheepishly. He understood, Riza realized, and her heart dangled at the anticipation.

Roy understood what she had been sorry about.

"Let's talk inside where it's warmer," he suggested.

They went inside, and her curiosity roamed the meticulously carved ornate ceiling, the cloth-covered furniture, and the warm, burgundy oak that swept across the extended parlor.

"Where are we?"

"This is where I used to live. My parents' house," Roy revealed.

And Riza looked around again, fascinated. No one seemed to have lived there for a long while, but the scent in the air was neither musty nor unpleasant. It smelled like lemon, sprayed with faint hints of cleaning vinegar.

He continued, "After they passed, Chris stayed here with me for a time. But in the end she was more comfortable staying at her own place and promptly moved out after I bought the place in Woodside."

"It's very nice. And very clean for being vacant for a while."

"I hired a maid to clean it weekly. I left everything as it was—the furniture, the knick knacks, crockery and things. I didn't want anyone to burgle the place, so I asked them to keep the place looking like it's lived in. At least from the outside."

"It's not far from where I live—_lived_," she corrected herself.

"Right," he agreed. "And with you being a history professor and all, I thought you'd appreciate a wee bit of history about East Village at the turn of the century."

She simply nodded. Even when she had been all excitement and wonder.

Traces of discomfort had left his voice as he backed further into the living area and began his narrative, "The wealthy used to live here about thirty years ago. On these streets. That was just a few years before we moved. If you noticed the marble entrance when you walked in, you can tell the original owner didn't spare any expenses with the grandeur. My mother used to comment about how our neighbors were too generous with their gifts."

Further in she followed, stopping by the mantelpiece to drift between one festive decoration to the next. "What kind of gifts?"

"Theater tickets; wines and spirits for my parents; invitations to holiday parties that included toy trucks for the children. I used to love playing with those things as a kid."

"That is generous."

"But as the years passed, the rich began moving to the Upper East and West Side. Before I knew it, most of them had gone and the city decided to turn these magnificent houses into multi-dwelling apartments and manors."

Her tone surged with intrigue, "Why did you stay?"

"The Irish immigrants moved into these parts not long after. Aunt Chris thought they'd watch over us—a woman and a child—especially since we're their fellow Irishmen and one of the first families of their kind to settle here."

The doctor proceeded towards the staircase concealed at the back of the room.

Eyes alight, Roy bounded up the steps with featherlike treads, not unlike an unrestrained child in a candy store, inciting insolent creaks out of the antique planks beneath. Towards the landing, he started to take them two at a time, as if time would swallow his past whole if he hadn't moved any faster. And then he left her behind, cutting around a corner and disappearing into a hallway of pale green wallpaper.

At the top of the stairs, Riza stalled and stared, perplexed. She was sure he wanted her to follow him. Her head pounded with a deliberation of _what happened_, and she began to chase after the sunlight coming from a door ajar. Her curiosity was always so intrusive.

"Wait, wait, wait! Don't come in-" Roy warned from inside, his voice rising.

Too late.

Pushing the half-open door, Riza peeked into the perfectly square bedroom. A nursery, she thought, with its animal-print wallpaper, a pastel blue rug in the middle, and a miniature chair folded into a nook. Everything about the space pointed to a happy childhood, bedecked with wooden toys and a row of colorful books. On the floor, a train set with extensive, looping railways created a treacherous path to the short and slim bedstead. And atop the mattress was a messy heap of stuffed animals—rabbit, bear, lion, giraffe. And it looked as though Roy had collected them all only to stash them somewhere private. Somewhere she wouldn't see.

He whirled around at the squeak of hinges, and Riza captured a frisson of embarrassment and mortification on his handsome face. But seeing his boyish chagrin made her smile. And then it made her laugh. She laughed so irrepressibly it prompted Roy to abandon his pursuit and stomp to the blithesome woman. His chest huffed for a breath, his countenance stained pink.

He whipped his head up towards the sky in a dramatic fashion and groaned, "I knew it. You're laughing at me."

She was chuckling now, and she met his wary gaze above the glow of flushed cheeks. "I'm not laughing _at_ you, but I know what you're trying to do. This was your room. Right?"

"Nuh-uh, no way." He shook his head to punctuate. But Riza knew he was trying hard to stifle that fact.

Her mirth lingered despite his misery. "Nothing wrong with owning a mountain of stuffed animals, Roy. Even if you're a boy." Bashfully, he met her eyes, and she basked in the occasion and added, mischievously, "But I, on the other hand, preferred getting action figures and toy guns. Dolls and stuffed animals are a little girly for my taste."

She studied the purl of a grin that began to form across his firmly shut lips, feeling her own shaping against her pearly teeth.

"So you_ were _calling me girly," he teased, a smirk rolling and releasing. He peered down at her and detained her full attention when he ultimately smiled. An earnest, amiable smile. She hadn't been so conscious of the butterflies in her belly and the soaring heat on her skin until now.

Swiftly, she attempted to calm the flutter only for it to worsen. Her voice shook slightly as she ducked her head down, pushing away his vehemence, "Um, didn't you live here until you were a teenager? You slept on such a small bed."

He beamed at this, seemingly oblivious to her moment of weakness. "Of course not. I took over my parents' bedroom, eventually." He took four careful steps to the door, avoiding the railroad, and beckoned to her. "Come."

His parents' old room was just a door down, but it was almost three times the size. Filling up one side of the wall was a massive bookshelf that reached up to the ceiling, sitting comfortably just below the crown moulding. Beside it, an elongated buffet housed a large slate of Venetian mirror, surrounded by frames upon frames of family portraits of various widths. The bed perched right across from it, the headboard backed towards nothing, floating in the center of the room near the photographs, as though dozing near them would offer them safer and blissful sleep.

Drawn to the pictures, Riza picked one up. In it held a vivid snapshot dusted in the umber of years past, of a grinning little boy bounded by an unsmiling couple who draped their hands along the outline of his petite shoulders. Convention prevented his parents from expressing joy, but she could guess that they had enjoyed that day as much as the youthful Roy seemed to have.

Then she stalked to the shelves, and her mouth upturned at the view before her.

"Wow, Maes was right. You _are_ a nerd," Riza remarked with an astonished nod.

Canting his head sideways, Roy asked, "Nerd?"

"Someone who spends too much time studying, expanding one's knowledge at the expense of their social life."

"How do you know those aren't my dad's books?" he countered, obviously miffed at being accused of studying too much.

"Because it says _Anatomy of the Human Body by Henry Gray, 1918_. That's seven years ago, so it must be yours. And the others here are more recent than that."

The doctor sighed and blew a puff upstream, fluttering the slicked-back bangs that started to unravel across his forehead. "I'm starting to think taking you here was a bad idea."

But she disagreed. It was a wonderful idea.

Amongst the congregation of medical tomes and within the unspoken lines of timeworn photographs, she _knew_ Roy Mustang. Her fingers trailed the collective spines, and she elected a leather-bound book, flipping haphazardly to find dog-eared creases and yellowing water rings from long-ago perusal. Another clue; another assurance of the man he had always been, eager and determined.

As Riza traded one book for another, she felt his eyes following, observing. She was afraid of turning around and catching his vision, breaking the companionable interlude that fell over them as easily as two childhood friends who never lost touch. Instead Roy drew near, making her pause, so close she could sense radiating heat through the dense material of her cocoon coat.

He plucked the book from her hand and placed it on the counter. Then he spun her, graciously, imploring her to meet him. His hand felt warm and heavy on her shoulder.

"Riza, I'm sorry about what I said," he began suddenly, sincerity magnifying the depth of his gaze. "It was cruel, and I wish I could take it back."

For a split second, a flurry of emotions rushed her to a place of anger again. But two weeks was more than enough time to whisk her back to a state of calm. Roy wasn't the only one who needed to apologize, in spite of his harsh words. Her breath steadied, and her tight expression unwound.

"I didn't think about you, Roy. I didn't think about Edward and Alphonse and the consequences of my actions when I was following him. If he had found out who I was..." she faltered, letting the dreadful image sink in. It could have been the reality. They could all be in danger because of her. "There's recklessness, and there's bravery. I felt brave, but I was reckless. I'm sorry."

"It's fine, Riza," he whispered, and she took note of the wave of relief that disentangled the arduous knots on his mien. Roy was so quick and willing with his forgiveness it put her to shame. A soothing hand climbed up and caressed her cheek. And like a fragile china, he cradled her face with care. "I'm glad you're alright."

Warmth settled in her stomach, and it spread outward like a ripple on a steady surface. Her toes rose until her eyes stared directly into his, until the lean of their mouths leveled, finding them on even grounds. Riza closed the inch between them and rested her forehead against his, reflecting her own relief when a small smile twined across resolute lips. "I'm sorry for worrying you."

The intimacy of their action was not lost on her. The mingling of searing breaths and the tentative touches filled with ardor created a keening, an aria that sang beneath her breastbone. She wanted more. She wanted him. More than she had ever coveted for another.

Her tremulous thumb drifted along the seams of his mouth, sketching both beauty and imperfections, shades and indentations that were no longer bound by a string of stories told by the fireplace. She angled her head for a kiss, and she kissed him. Tasting. Reveling. The flavor of burned sugar and something else sweet sealed the impossibility, and she marveled at the permanence. When doubt came for a fleeting second, she lifted one hand to the center of his chest, and she felt it. There. His heart, drumming to a fresh rhythm that longed to match hers.

The doctor was solid. He was real.

Like an eruption of flare, untamed and unbridled, Roy responded with his own urgency. The hands that had enfolded her cheeks circled to the back of her head and ran into her golden waves with crystalline intentions. He fisted her hair, his lips as relentless as his grip, and her pulse warbled, and warbled, and warbled, carrying a new beat that traveled down to the curl of her toes and ascended to the core between her hips. It stayed there, and she sensed a kindling that gave way to an intemperate burn.

Pulling free from the doctor, Riza shrugged off her coat until it pooled around her feet. She sloughed off her shoes and stepped forward to gather him again, but Roy stumbled backwards towards the bed and perched at the edge. Trepidation forged a murky shadow beneath his lower lids.

"These past two weeks had me convinced that you were going to leave," he mourned, his gaze tragic above his wet, thrumming lips. "Am I being irrational, Riza?"

_Leave_, she mused. Such a foreign word in the midst of their propinquity. But just as soon, Riza understood his fear, even when it had been unfounded in the first place. If she knew him at all, no amount of speech would grant the consolation he sought. She grabbed her petite handbag that safeguarded the one thing that would make a difference and produced it in her hand.

Roy swayed an astounded gape up at her when she drew close. She smiled, appeasing, and placed the ring on his open palm. "Not once did I think about leaving. Here, I want you to have this." And she folded his fingers to close around it.

The doctor scrutinized the ring like it was a vial of poison and immediately tucked it inside his jacket pocket, never wishing to see it again. The hollow in his expression gradually vanished. He wrapped his arms around her pelvis and buried his face into her clothed center.

"I care too much about you to let you go," he confessed, clutching at her like she was sustenance.

Her forefinger tilted his chin up to her, and she pleaded, "Then don't."

His desire returned like the clashing of thunder—frenzied and bold and _instinctual_. The glare of an impending midday that slithered in between the velvet curtains faded to ashen grey with the sudden torrent of rain. Their disrobed skins glowed in the half light, emotions bared and inquisitive.

Roy lifted her and laid her across the bed, her limbs splayed, her mane unfurled underneath. She watched him tuck a wayward lock from her cheek, and she watched him poise a smile. And she continued to watch him as he parted her mouth, pressing his need with an exploring tongue. Many times he kissed her, softly, harshly, testing his boundaries, as if the act of kissing was a new experience, a dreamlike awe begging to be made true.

Frantic illustrations yielded to delicate brushstrokes. Roy clung to the swell of her breasts and slid along her contour, svelte and lovely, imprinting his reverence along the valley of curved waists. Years became measured in days, _this moment_ in mere minutes, and she braced herself for the second with which her conscience would strike. Could they stay together, truly? But Roy soothed her with little effort, freeing the whispers of contrition with a patient yet seeking hand, finally arriving where she ached most.

It was bright. Brighter than ever before. Roy rose back up and _saw_ her, and in the ephemera of the here and now, she recognized adoration and trust. And love. It was physical and apparent. It was more than she could contain.

Gently, Roy moved against her, persuading his name from her lips, _again, again_. In a cloud of shallow breaths, Riza crooned and blasphemed, her perpetual gaze adrift among the stars. At long last, with her heart full and her body buoyant, he transported her from the precipices of the past and future into the remembered present, the consequences of time lost to her forever.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to hear what you think. Next chapter features the entire gang. Like, literally, the entire gang. Until then!


	16. The Flying of a Leaf

**Chapter 16: The Flying of a Leaf**

Olivier Armstrong was determined. If there ever were physical attributes to that very word, it would be an image of a thirty-five year-old woman with a stubborn-set mouth and an implacable glower, tempered only by waves of long, blonde hair and a pillow of rosy lips. Not once did she budge on Maes' sensible suggestion to catch the _consiglieri_—the mafia's advisers—instead of aiming directly for The Boss.

"Impossible," Maes Hughes had said. "If I knew how to bring Frankie down like that, I would've done it already."

If the detective was determined, the mobster was equally unshakeable. The Prohibition Bureau's early proposal was shot down faster than the threat of twenty years at Sing Sing. Maes wanted more for his family. He _needed_ more, Riza could see. Even with the faithful Gracia beside him, her gentle hand on his flexed arm and her soft assurances when a sneer began to twist on his face, Maes Hughes wouldn't backpedal.

For Riza, who had been witnessing the blow by blow with a strained jaw and taut shoulders, it felt like waiting for the sky to fall. Standing in the furthest corner of the storage closet hadn't spared her the intensity. And tonight, she was even more aware, her fixation on the crime boss fierce and sharp, bordering on obsession. She counted the number of times he had cracked his knuckles, and she kept track of the near miss punches he wanted to throw the detective's way.

But if Armstrong and Hughes had been good about something, it was with keeping their emotions in check. They always seemed to know when to pull back. Control it. Conceal it. Perhaps it was the idea of being one-upped by a sworn nemesis that prevented them from exposing too much. Vulnerability sounds like truth, and truth is seldom comfortable, as her grandfather would say.

"You enjoying this? The match of the century," Roy teased in a low voice, attempting to make light of the tense situation. He slipped a furtive hand into hers, interlacing their fingers, and Riza cranked her neck in his direction only to find him looking at her with a tiny smile that eased the ever tightening knot in her belly.

"This is more excruciating to watch than a boxing match," she replied solemnly. "I wouldn't be surprised if Olivier would just up and leave at any moment… though I certainly hope she wouldn't."

The doctor leaned in and whispered in her ear, "Oh, look, they're about to do the playground squabbles again."

With her palms etched on the flimsy wooden table, the detective sprang from her seat and pointed at the mobster, accusing him of being uncooperative. Again. Except this time her emotions were beginning to unravel. Did she finally reach breaking point, Riza wondered. The anemic lighting, the confining space, and the uncomfortable furniture certainly didn't help. But it was the most secluded and unfrequented location on the entire basement of the Hughes-Mustang Company Ltd.

"You said you'd behave yourself, and look what happened to Fuery," Armstrong snapped.

Hughes coiled his fingers in supplication and responded in a sedative manner, as he had been through most of the night. He was still very good about maintaining equanimity. "I behaved like any proper gentleman would. I didn't give that kid the black eye," he said.

"But your head of security did. How can I be assured you didn't tell him to do just that?" Armstrong retorted. Her countenance twisted in ire and indignation as she forced herself back down into the rigid, windsor chair.

"I give you my word. Though Breda is a big boy, in more ways than one, and what he does outside of this office is of no concern of mine. But I promise as long as he is on the clock, he and Fuery will make an excellent team."

Armstrong seemed to consider this, staring at the mobster and narrowing a pair of scrutinizing eyes from his head to toe. She didn't say another word, but got up slowly and paced about the twelve-by-twelve room with the single fluorescent striplight whining and shuddering above her. The space was barely enough to host five adults, let alone five adults with an identical, fiery temper and combative voices.

But underneath the detective's hard-edged exterior was concern for her people, Riza surmised. Olivier Armstrong cared about them more than she let on. Her prudence when it came to their safety was commendable, and the lightspeed rebuttal she flung back at Maes as he questioned their capabilities was like a hard slap in the face. No wonder Fuery remained by her side. And he made an appearance tonight, against all odds, still pretending to be Maes' trusted lackey, standing sentry at the doorway to this clandestine meeting.

"And Maria?" the detective ventured, calmly now. "You're fine with where we're placing her?"

"If my wife says fine."

Quietly, Gracia nodded her agreement and placed a hand on her swollen stomach, stroking over her silken dress, up and down, up and down.

"Good," Armstrong remarked, finding her seat again, one hand on the top rail. "And you will have your men keep watch of all possible locations?"

The mobster shrugged. "Maybe."

"What do you mean 'maybe'?" she hissed. "We're at the end here. All I need you to do is say 'yes' and we're done for the night."

He bit back, "You do realize you're putting my men in danger for this. What about your own men, huh?"

"Look, I've sent many of mine to stake out his place. Some never came back, and the ones I've got left they'll probably recognize."

"And you think I haven't lost any of mine? You've already got _my_ resources, _my_ intelligence, so the least you could do is provide more of _your_ men."

"How would I know you've got better intelligence than we do? You haven't revealed shit, Hughes. You shouldn't even have the power to bargain here."

He winked at her and cocked his thumb and forefinger like a pistol, taunting her, "Your loss, Armstrong."

Planting her hands on her hips, a deadly scowl on her face, she leaned towards him and shot back, "I should just apprehend you right here, right now. You probably bumped off a few of my men for all I know."

Gracia extended a soothing hand and rubbed the length of his arm, her mouth firm, her gaze beseeching. Obstinate, Maes softly patted his wife's cheek, if only to assuage her. And then he turned to sneer at the detective, in a singsong fashion to boot, "And where's the proof, my formidable ally?"

Armstrong snorted and began laughing, derisively. The door swung open with the force of a gale, and she marched outside and glared at her bespectacled agent, a swathe of gauze hiding his one bruised eyelid and sliced brow. The poor man looked panic-stricken, his cheeks flaring red and lips pulled-in grievously.

"_What did I tell you, Fuery? And you thought this partnership would work? Think again. Now show me the kitchen. I need some coffee if I'm gonna continue this nonsense..."_

And Riza could hear everything, even when the hinges to the bulky door had already clicked back into place.

The sickness in her abdomen started to churn again. Like spoiled food threatening to climb up her throat and out her mouth; she could practically taste the acerbity on her tongue. Maes Hughes was stubborn, she knew this. And she had prophesied the trains colliding from a mile away. Riza wished it would never come to this, but now... she felt she had no choice. Her loose grip on Roy's hand stiffened.

"Are you alright?" Roy asked hastily. His voice was faint, not wanting to drive attention, but she knew he had sensed her jitters when a pair of worried eyes drifted to her.

"What is Maes _doing_?" Riza whispered back, mirroring the doctor's consternation. "Doesn't he realize he needs all the protection he can get?"

Gently, he traced warm circles on the back of her hand with his thumb, gliding it across the smooth expanse. Dodging her gaze, he exhaled a shallow breath and murmured, "Maybe this is what's supposed to happen. Maybe Maes isn't supposed to be working with Armstrong..."

She recognized it instantly. Her foresight had been on his mind. And it had probably been there, itching, goading him, since before tonight. Roy would never ask for this knowledge, though her head grew dizzier and heavier with every passing moment. It really wouldn't take much to cajole what she knew out of her.

"Remember what I said... when we first met?" she ventured and squeezed his hand, half-hoping it would jog his memory so she wouldn't have to say it aloud.

"What you said about Frankie?"

"No. What I said about Maes."

With a contemplative gaze on the ground, the doctor took a minute before looking up and absorbing her vision again. "You mean what you said about Maes being dead?"

She swallowed a lump of spittle and felt it lodge in her chest, thick and suffocating. Roy regarded her, anticipating but patient. He wasn't rushing for an explanation nor was he urging her to voice her perturbation. He just watched, and gave her an encouraging, little smile. His kindness only inspired her to spill everything she'd been guarding in the alcove of her overfilled brain.

She nodded, and she hoped it was enough.

His flickering eyes grew dim, as if deep in reflection. But in the haze Riza saw terror and incredulity and alarm taking shape, roiling into a growing sense of foreboding in herself. Roy understood her intention. And he understood what was tormenting her, heart and mind.

"I see," he mumbled. He grasped her hand tightly, and the sign of affection almost felt admonishing. "Just… be gentle with him, will you? My brother isn't as sturdy as he looks."

Riza wasted little time. The longer she lingered, the harder it would become. With a granite conviction, she approached Maes, who was staunchly preoccupied with articulating Irish baby names and their auspicious meaning. She sensed Gracia's intuitive eyes as she neared, and Riza attempted to cure her own heartache with the thought that _this_—what she was about to do—was for the Hughes family's own good.

"Can I talk to you?" Riza asked the mobster. When she encountered Gracia and her wary mien, she added, "Privately?"

Maes proffered his wife a reassuring look, the look that ascertained there was no need to worry, that he was going to be fine. He pushed his glasses back into place and glanced at Riza, extending his hand towards the exit. "Lead the way."

They hiked the steep staircase onto the main floor and crossed the threshold into Maes' office, shutting the door behind them. The detective was nowhere in sight, though Maes would periodically glean over the blinds draping his inner window.

"Do you believe me, Maes?" Riza began, asking earnestly.

He took a deep breath and licked his lips in a rare gesture of discomfort. "Frankly, it all still feels surreal. But Roy believes you, and that's good enough for me."

"Then believe me when I tell you that the Cosa Nostra is taking over these streets. There will be no more White Hand Gang by Christmas of this year, Maes. The Irish mob will have been gone then. All of them." _At least until their resurgence three decades later_, she added to herself. But he didn't need to know that. He wouldn't be around long enough to see it.

His hand flew to the mass of stubble that nearly grew into a full beard, and he frowned. He looked as if he had aged ten years in two seconds. He hummed skeptically, "Is that right?"

"I am asking you to please, _please_ consider this partnership with Armstrong. Not only will she protect your family, but she will also protect you. And... well," she hesitated, sauntering to his unruly desk and playing with the stray pens and books and notepads. Anything to lift the unease swirling inside. "As history would have it, you won't be here… for much longer."

His expression was calm. He didn't seem scared, or even surprised. He didn't weep for the grim outlook she had just uncovered. Not at all what she expected. He just looked on ahead, at her or beyond her she wasn't sure, a man who'd brushed against death more times than either of them could count. It was as if he had known all along, and it showed.

"And I'm not talking about incarceration," Riza added.

"I see."

Her narration had sounded effortless in her head. Less sentimental and more powerful and persuasive. Like an impressive waterfall. But now that she had spoken it aloud, in front of the person whose life was as fleeting as the minutes that passed by, it felt as if her courage had been carried away with the stream, too.

Deeply, she inhaled. Her lips trembled when she released air. "I'm going to tell you everything, Maes. We rely on written records, as you know, among other things. Without them, we had to make an educated guess. A lot of educated guesses..." she was rambling now, she realized. "There was hardly anything on record the night you…"

For a moment she shied away, looking anywhere else but at him. Her sentence hung incomplete, and she let it stay that way when cowardice took hold of her again. She hoped he would understand.

Eventually Riza continued, gasping for a breath that seemed to escape her, "News about your family was scarce since then. If I had known exactly what happened that day, what led to that moment, I'd feel more confident about stopping it. And I'm still going to try! I knew exactly _when_ it would happen-"

He waved a frantic hand at her, but his voice was still cool. Controlled. "Stop. Stop right there. There are things men should not be privy to, and what you are about to tell me is one of them." But in the next heartbeat, he started gesticulating with his index finger, warning her, his composure crumbling. "I do _not_ want to know, alright? So don't you _dare_ tell me."

Riza wanted to protest. This was a matter of life and death. But Maes moved on with haste, effectively shutting her up, "But can you tell me just one thing, Riza?"

Her chin tilted up in hope, and she faced him, bobbing her head.

"Will Gracia be alright? Is she... going to live?" he asked, dragging on the last few words. Desperation dug itself into the thick wrinkles between his brows.

Things about his family were mere fragments after his death in 1926. None made up a whole picture. But Riza knew for a fact that Gracia Hughes had lived to mourn another World War, attest to deserving men and women fighting for their civil rights, and witness man walk on the moon before dying at the age of eighty-six.

"Yes, Gracia will live a long and healthy life," Riza answered, and tried to further uplift his spirit in the form of a smile. But it felt pathetic and halfhearted.

Maes was appeased, however, a pleased smile carved on his unbending mouth. "Good. That's good."

"Aren't you scared?" she asked impulsively, not waiting another second. He might be fearless, but _she_ was scared for him.

"Of course I am," said Maes simply. But something else shifted his attention, she could see, and he didn't care to dawdle. He didn't even give her the time to catch up to her racing thoughts. "But it's worse for you, isn't it? You know exactly what would happen to everyone. And to my brother. It must be painful for you to think about it," he illuminated.

But she refuted, shaking her head. "Actually, I don't know what will happen to him. I couldn't find much on Roy Mustang."

"Hmm. Could be because he isn't really a part of this whole business," he muttered, scratching his chin. "But that's a relief. For you and for me. One less thing to worry about."

Riza gave him a weak grin.

At the noise of footfalls outside, Maes confronted the slits in the blinds, seeing Armstrong disappear down into the basement. The mobster turned back and beamed at her. His smile was blinding, and, despite the solemn backdrop of their brief conversation, Riza could feel the great weight on her shoulders shrinking, shriveling.

"I suppose I better get back down there and finish what we started," Maes announced. "Oh, and you are still on our payroll, yes?"

"I am."

"Good. Lock up this office, will you? It looks like it'll be some time before I come back here again."

After he left, she tidied up his desk, stacking loose papers and piling unopened missives to one side, and lost herself in the task. Once all was said and done, she pilfered the hidden bottle of whisky sitting in the bottom drawer and switched off the lights. Maes deserved a drink after all this. Her back to the common area, Riza twisted the key in the lock and briskly whipped around only to bump against someone, creating a din of fumbling heels in the otherwise silent office.

"Oh, Rebecca! I'm sorry. I didn't see you," Riza exclaimed, holding her friend steady by the arms.

One hand over her chest, the brunette waved her off and flashed a relieved smile. Rebecca appeared flawless in her powdery face, bold red lips to complement the sultry lashes that curled towards the sky. Her tiered evening dress pressed close at her slender waist, the beaded fabric sheer and sparkling around her bountiful bosom. A plume of ostrich feather crowned her coiffed bun, and it swayed side by side as her body shook with laughter.

For the first time since they met, her friend seemed like a stranger.

"That's alright, darling. I should've watched where I was going," Rebecca said.

"What are you doing here so late? Everyone's gone home a while ago."

She was fast to reply. "Ah, no, that's not true. Jean's still around, finishing some last minute things. But I'm here to collect on his promise to take me to the Cotton Club tonight. I even brought his change for him." And then she canted her head towards her, smirking, and whispered near her ear, "By the way, I saw that kiss the doctor gave you earlier. In an empty office, too. How naughty."

"Oh… so you saw." At twenty-nine, Riza thought she was beyond the fluster of a schoolgirl. But she blushed, and felt her cheeks sting with the burn. How long had Rebecca been here to see all of that?

"You finally made it happen," her friend went on, teasing.

"And you finally got that date. Took you long enough," Riza returned with a smile.

"Speaking of dates, Jean and I would like to invite you, along with Mr. and Mrs. Hughes for a stroll and a carriage ride at Central Park next Saturday. You know, see the trees change colors and all that. Maybe we can visit the holiday market afterwards. It'll be fun. Bring the doctor. I'm sure he'd like to come, too."

"That sounds lovely, Becca, but next week is Thanksgiving. Roy and I are taking the kids ice skating at Prospect Park."

Her feather-crown swayed again when she tilted her head forward, giggling endearingly. "Oh, look at you playing the role of their mother. When's the wedding? How about the following week after that?"

And she considered Maes and Olivier and their plausible partnership in the coming days. She bit her lip. Was it a good idea to have the Hugheses walk around Central Park with a target on their backs? Surely Frankie Yale and the Sicilians would eventually deduce he was helping the Bureau.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea. With Gracia's pregnancy and the temperature getting colder, I think it would be best if they stay inside."

Unexpectedly Rebecca slapped her forehead, rather harshly, as if she had just realized her mistake. "Oh wait, I'm sorry. It's not next week, but in two weeks. December 6th is Jean's birthday. He told me he'd be _ecstatic_ if Mr. and Mrs. Hughes can attend. I told him he shouldn't be bugging them on their day off, but he insisted. Said it'll be nice to have his bosses celebrate his special day with him."

"Right…" Riza said with reluctance. "I don't know if they would want to come. I'll have to ask them first."

She laid a begging hand on Riza's shoulder. "Will you, please? It would mean the world to him. You know how long I've been trying to catch his attention. If I can get them to come, it will boost my chance to get to the altar sooner!"

"Jean's already head over heels for you, Becca." But as she came across her friend's pursed mouth and sloping brows, Rebecca's features pleading in earnest, Riza couldn't help but relent. She sighed in surrender, "Okay, fine. I'll ask them. But no promises."

Giddily, Rebecca bounced off the ground, her mary jane prattling against the linoleum beneath their feet. "Thanks, Riza! You're the best!" And then she looked at her wristwatch, gasping, "Rhatz! It's getting late. I guess I better find Jean before he takes off. Have a good night, darling."

Rebecca strutted out of the building and, ostensibly, into the warehouse next door where the yellow luster of a desk lamp quivered along the wall by the open window. Mechanically, Riza smoothed down her skirts and patted the low chignon above her neck, tucking in stray strands. Then she encountered the floor and saw something bright and silver winking at her.

She bent down to pick it up, lifting the intricacies carved into the oval-shaped locket into the light. A ringlet of leaves adorned the opening near the clasp, not unlike the embellishment on the ring that had transported her here.

When she looked inside, a grinning picture of a young boy no older than five stared back at her. A recent photograph, she thought, neatly trimmed and pressed into the rim to make a perfect fit. The other side was hollow, and bore two letters engraved in the most elegant cursive: AC.

* * *

On the next chapter: Words of Wisdom

It was a face he thought he'd never see again. The dark waves that coiled to one side of her shoulder had grown long, and the dull streaks below her forthright gaze worried him that she hadn't afforded the most restful sleep. But she was a sight for sore eyes, and all Roy wanted to do was leap out of his seat and latch onto her, a child missing his long-lost mother.

She approached, and he attempted a smile. But his lips quivered in betrayal, and for a heartbeat he thought he was going to cry. He hadn't cried in years, and he wouldn't start now.

"What's wrong, Roy-boy? Cat's got your tongue?"


	17. Words of Wisdom

A/N: Home reno seems to be the thing during quarantine, so my husband and I spent the last 3 weeks jumping on the bandwagon. We painted our home office with Behr's Admiral Blue, which we liked to dub Amestrian Blue, because it just matched Roy and Riza's uniform. We're pretty happy with the result :).

On another note, I finished all 3 seasons of A:TLA while doing the renovations, and I gotta say Uncle Iroh is THE BEST (aside from Zuko. Oh, and Sokka's totally growing on me-he and Suki are just so cute). Iroh's "words of wisdom" made it here into this chapter, and that's +100 points for pointing out which one it is. :P

I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 17: Words of Wisdom**

"Now _this_ is life."

Propping his feet up on the coffee table, Maes blew a long, contented sigh. A wide smile played on his winter-cracked lips, and his right hand, with the slightest tremble, reached for the newly filled glass sitting on the round side table beside him. The afternoon shimmer that crept in through the ceiling-high windows pilfered the deep amber from the contraband liquor, turning it a pale straw that matched the sauce stain on the mobster's white dress shirt.

Roy could only watch as his brother took a noisy sip, and then another, with the intensity of a ravenous man. As if doing so would chase away all of his lingering worries. And then he heard the liquid going down his throat. _Gulp, gulp, gulp_.

The doctor sipped his own glass of whisky, though it had lost its scorching temperament now that the ice had thoroughly melted and went down his pipes as smooth as a warm splash of jasmine tea. Even the color resembled tea.

In the background, Bessie Smith belted out her jazz masterpiece that spoke of the promiscuity of a woman. Ever so slowly, Maes closed his eyes and began bobbing his head in all directions, humming to the rise and fall of her soulful gospel with his out-of-tune rendition. His long arms now spread along the top cushion of his cabriole sofa, the master of the house at ease, his whisky sloshing left and right, up and down with the intensity of his little head jig.

Once Maes returned from his state of bliss, he creased his brows at him, looking almost offended that Roy hadn't quite lost himself in the same sentiment. "Why so quiet, Doctor Mustang?"

Impulsively, Roy brought the drink to his mouth, sipping loudly for the sake of creating sounds, trading honesty for a few more seconds of calm. Ever since he'd arrived at Maes' Manhattan mansion he had felt chills hiking up and down his spine, binding his feet to the same spot on the ground and stifling his voice. A portent. A terrible one, it seemed.

"So? How about it, Doctor?"

"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," Roy simply said.

"But that's not all," Maes remarked, his finger tutting knowingly at the doctor. "What is it?"

Resignedly, he sighed, and then pointed to the speckle of mustard yellow on his shirt, near his collarless neckline. "You've been sloppy; your hand's shaking, and you can't stop drinking; you're worried about something. Are you thinking about what Riza told you?"

Grimace wrinkled the mobster's youthful face, as though he'd been caught in a lie. Maes set his whisky down, letting solemnity take over as he beckoned his brother over. The smile faded from his lips. Quietly, Roy plodded over without much of a fight and perched himself beside him, close enough he could smell the heady liqueur in his breath. He put his own drink aside.

"Do you wanna know the secret to a long, happy life, Roy? It is to live in the moment, every minute of every day. Enjoy the little things. I can't and _won't_ spend my time fearing what I don't know. Besides, no one's tried to kill me so far. Surely that's something to celebrate."

"Are you drunk, Maes?"

"No," he murmured, and a lazy grin cropped up. It only convinced Roy otherwise. One look at the doctor, who stared unamused, and Maes corrected himself, "I've got a bit of an edge, maybe. But I'm not meeting Armstrong for another couple hours. Plenty of time to get cleaned up."

"You want to talk about it?"

Restlessly, the mobster nuzzled his broad back into the plush of the sofa, wrapping his arms around himself—from the chilly air all around or from discomfort, Roy could only guess. The man's clear anxiety made him sound apathetic, lackluster. "Well, talk about cleaning up, I can tell you about caporegime number two and how Armstrong beat the living shit out of him. I heard he didn't even try to hit back. He'll be going to trial soon enough. Not a word about the elusive mole from him though. For all we know, he or she is already gone. We might never find out who it was that gave me this feckin' hole in my leg."

"Still. Be very careful, Maes."

His brother nodded but said no more, his gaze evasive.

"And you're meeting Armstrong this evening for number three?"

"Mm-hmm."

"So you called me here to accompany you?"

All at once Maes' appearance turned weary. Deflated. And then he let out a puff of laughter, strangled and disheartened, before Roy could deduce the scene before him. Maes Hughes was the polar opposite of himself—sunny and jubilant, grounded and settled, a kaleidoscope of emotions perpetually dancing in the light. The man could barely hide any of it, and he rarely faltered, always with a glass half-full view of the world; a possibility for redemption with every misdeed, so Maes believed.

It was disturbing to see him wandering in the dark for so long. Hurriedly, Roy swiveled to the man leaning listless, all focus on him. Maes pressed on with a defeated slump against the cushions, and his expressive emerald eyes conveyed a terrible sadness that made the doctor bolt upright in his seat, terrified of the spectacle. For a moment Roy opened himself up to the deluge, letting the horror pull him deeper.

"Maes! Hey-" He was this close to snapping at him, anything to rouse him from his ailment.

But Maes didn't lose his beat, putting a swift hand up. "I called you here so I can talk to you about Gracia. Look, Roy…" He paused for a deep intake of breath, the outline of his shoulders quaking at the exhale. "I may not know what's in store for me, but I can prepare."

He knew where Maes was going with this. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear it. "You don't have to do this now…"

"Yes, I do. I know I won't be around forever."

Silence commanded him, and all Roy could do was to follow, keeping his worries to himself.

His voice bolder and louder, Maes said, "Gracia knows what she got herself into when she married me. Now, I'm not asking you to take care of her or any of that bullshit. That'd be asking for too much, especially when you've got your own life to worry about-" But the gentle touch of heartache only cemented itself, stumbling his words all the more, "But when I'm… when I'm gone, I want you to make sure she moves on. She always says she would... but if I were in her position, I don't know if I could… It's not as easy as it seems..."

For a while, Roy mulled it over, solidifying what was asked of him. Consolation was at the tip of his tongue. He wanted to say that Gracia had been through her own time of tribulations, before Chris found her on the streets. A lonely, injured stray. Though not for long. She knew how to pick herself back up, Roy determined long ago.

"Knowing Gracia, I think she'll be fine, given time," he declared.

"Yeah," Maes agreed wholeheartedly, a proud, wistful smile easing the gloom. "She was a feisty, little tiger, wasn't she?"

Roy chuckled, "She was. I'm glad I didn't have to deal with her like you did."

"Me too. Can you imagine what would have happened if it had been you?" There was a mild note of jealousy as Maes rambled on, and he sniffled inconsolably, in between sentences, "You would have married her. Probably. We look similar enough. Only you're a few inches shorter and without glasses."

For the first time since he stepped foot into Maes' glamorous abode, Roy laughed, genuinely, "Your life would be in crumbles. But _you_ didn't even give me the chance to get to know her. I say that was all carefully planned from the very beginning."

Grinning, Maes tut-tutted, "Listen to what ol' Bessie is saying. 'So if I ever get my hand on a dollar again, I'm gonna hold on to it till them eagle's grin.'"

"What's a dollar gotta do with Gracia?"

He reached for his whisky again, drank the rest of the watered down liquor, and inclined his head against the back of the sofa, sighing softly. "You can say the same thing about life. A man's gotta move fast. There's only regret the longer you wait."

"You're twisting her words, Maes. I'm quite sure that's not what she's not saying at all."

"The same goes with every woman out there. Will _she_ become a regret, Roy?" he teased.

"Are you talking about Riza?"

Maes' eyes lit up for a good second. "Yes! What do you have planned for her? Are you going to marry her?"

And just like that the same ol' Maes returned. Fully recovered by the looks of it. Suffocating him with questions about his love life, as he always had. "We've only known each other for half a year. You and Gracia were together for two before getting married."

"Only because she waited for me to come back from the war," he rectified smoothly, confidently. "Oh, come on, Roy, get a wiggle on already! Do you love her or not?"

He did. More than he thought he could love anyone.

"Well, if you must know then yes... I love her," the doctor admitted shyly. Then he dropped his head into his hands, rubbing at his face, and grumbled aloud, "I can't imagine what life would be like without her. I don't remember what it was like before she came." And he lifted his black gaze up and glared at the mobster, piercing daggers, "Look what you're making me do, Maes. You're turning me into a feckin' sap, like you."

Maes hooted an obnoxious cackle, as if satisfied with himself, "So then what's next?"

Resolute glare turned into an indecisive gape, and Roy muttered, "I… uh, don't know."

Instantly, his brother's face scrunched up in displeasure. "What do you mean you don't know? Is it the nookie? Not wild enough for you?" he went on shamelessly.

Roy groaned in frustration, "Jesus Christ, Maes…"

"Or is it because you don't know how she feels about you? Did you not say anything to her?"

"Oh, she definitely knows how I feel about her. It's just..." The doctor gave a dismissive shoulder lift. "I come with the baggage of two teenaged sons. I'm not sure how she feels about that."

"_Mar dhea._ Are you blind?" Maes returned aggressively, fueled with anger.

Roy was taken aback, stunned, and retreated without argument. But he kept an incredulous gawk at his brother's growing irritation.

Maes stood and jabbed an index finger into the doctor's shoulder, attempting to unnerve him with the entirety of his six feet height. "If you don't think she's acting like their mother now then _you_ are blind. And if not now, then when will it be? Next year? Five years? You want to wait until Alphonse turns 18 and is out of your hair? We were just having a conversation about regret, did we not?" he roared passionately.

He wasn't talking about Roy anymore.

Out the uncurtained windows across the parlor, Roy stared absentmindedly, inhaling, exhaling, seeing scudding clouds envelope the room in gradual darkness. It was sudden and unpredictable, but the warmth of the afternoon returned just as swiftly as if it had never left.

Willingly, he fell into the old dream again, a vision he'd seen far too often for quite some time. He pictured himself waking as the sun blinked her orange-pink rays over the horizon, warm and tranquil. Her eyes closed restfully, Riza lay beside him, even breaths rising and falling, moving with the contour of her breasts. He was drunk on love all over again. Their skin touched, and the gathering dawn illuminated the gold in her bedhead mane, shaping the petals of her coral lips against dewy complexion.

Most days, it was all he wanted to think about.

In the stillness, Roy felt for his breast pocket, fishing out the round shaped jewel nestled against his chest.

"You want to know how she got here?" Roy asked meekly.

The abraded heirloom lay flat and still on the doctor's palm. Maes picked it up, weighing the item in his hand, assessing the doctor's unbelievable statement. He studied the carvings inside and out, like a piece of evidence, as he'd done during his short time as an agent for the Bureau.

"_Ex tempore_, eh? Is that what it says?" Maes muttered, twisting the band with his fingers. "It looks like there's more writing here… but hard to know what it says with the scuffs all around. It's too scratched up."

"I'm sure it was a beautiful ring, once upon a time."

Rubbing his chin, Maes added, "It's ugly now. I hope you're not planning on giving her this."

"Of course not. I don't know what would happen the moment it's back on her finger, and I'm not taking that risk," he spat, his upper lip coiling in disdain. "But I can't just toss it or burn it or intentionally try to lose it. It was a gift from her grandfather; the ring means something to her."

"You asked me why I invited you here today. It was about Gracia, but that's not all," Maes said out of the blue. There was mischief in the glint of his green eyes. "You'll know why in a minute."

With that, Maes left him alone and bewildered, with his own supposition of what was to come. Heavy footsteps reverberated the occasional ripple against the marble floor as the mobster marched out of the room. Maes's protective details doing their duties. They were never too far away, and for a brief, worrying minute, Roy pondered how much of their conversation they had heard.

Bessie Smith had stopped singing. The only audience in the too-vast residence was the hissing of white noise. It was incredibly quiet. So quiet, Roy felt the need to tap his feet. He did just that, and distracted himself with thoughts of Riza and Gracia and their ladies' day-out to the department store, Edward and Alphonse and the dinner they'd soon enjoy at the Rockbell family home.

At the distant sound of sharp, clicking heels, Roy turned to the doorway. It grew louder and closer, and he was certain someone was coming his way. It was a familiar footfall. Dragged and then heaved, and then dragged again. The pulse in his neck began to drum with anticipation, thrill coursing through him in a way that raised gooseflesh from his every pore. Maes never returned, but in his place was someone else.

It was a face he thought he'd never see again. The dark waves that coiled to one side of her shoulder had grown long, and the dull streaks below her forthright gaze worried him that she hadn't afforded the most restful sleep. But she was a sight for sore eyes, and all Roy wanted to do was leap out of his seat and latch onto her, a child missing his long-lost mother.

She approached, and he attempted a smile. But his lips quivered in betrayal, and for a heartbeat he thought he was going to cry. He hadn't cried in years, and he wouldn't start now.

"What's wrong, Roy-boy? Cat's got your tongue?"

"Chris…" he choked.

Aunt Chris was here. She was back.

They weren't ones to parade affection for one another, but his limbs seemed to have a mind of their own, anxious arms extending voraciously and wrapping around her stout body, as if making doubly sure she was really there. Surprise lifted the hairs along his nape when she embraced him back, a weak hold that slowly firmed around the breadth of his shuddering torso.

Roy let go, and just as expected of his aunt, she pulled away to nurse herself a glass of whisky from the bar cart. The circumstance of their reunion quickly turned his joy into indignance.

"Where have you been, Chris?" he insisted.

Chris took a hardy swig, as if she'd abstained during the time she had been in hiding. Roy doubted it, but she smacked her lips and released a satiated _ahh_ before replying, "Believe it or not, I was on Long Island. Boring place, if I could say so myself. I'm missing the excitement of Manhattan."

"And you couldn't bother leaving me a note? I was worried sick," he snarled before he could rein in his temper.

"Your stubborn brother thinks it's best for me not to have contact with anyone else."

"And why would Maes say that?"

"Because Frankie's goons visited my joint. They tossed things here and there the last time they were there."

His breath stalled. He didn't know about any of this. Accusations rose in his mind, compelling him to demand, demand, demand. "When was that? Why didn't you tell me? Were you _ever_ going to tell me?"

"A few days before my birthday celebration-turned-funeral," Chris answered with the placidity of the resigned, expecting every bit of his bitter inquiry. With little grace and elegance, she sauntered to Maes' silk-wrapped chair and sunk herself down into the cradle. The vigor in her movements had dwindled along with the ever-blazing fire in her eyes, now heavy and dimmed at half-staff. "Well, are you gonna stand there and question me all day?"

He swished reproach around his mouth, ready to fire, but Aunt Chris caught him and furnished an apologetic smile. A sense of shame manifested, and Roy bowed his head, staring ruefully at the gleaming floor. He knew why she didn't tell him. He had vowed to stay away from all their bootlegging business.

"Sorry," Roy offered earnestly, walking towards the chair next to hers. "I was just… worried."

"That's alright," she said without delay.

"Will you be staying here a while?"

She emptied the glass in her hand in one guzzle and cocked her head up at him. "No. I'm going back to Long Island soon. Maes said I should start planning my retirement, especially since he won't be supplying my bar anymore. He said there's no reason for me to be here."

He nodded agreeably. "He's right. You should start thinking about your retirement."

"Right, of course."

"Then why are you here? You should stay well and far away from all the mess."

"I heard some exciting news from your brother. It would be a shame to my profession if I don't find out for myself," she beamed, flashing her yellowing teeth. The fire in her eyes seemed to have rekindled, if only for a moment.

Other than the Armstrong-Hughes partnership and the development of their collective agenda, excitement was far and few between. "Which is what...?"

Her throat worked as she laughed. "I told you she was trouble. But good trouble, it seems like."

A single brow rose in disbelief, and he deduced, "Riza? _She's_ the exciting news? You decided to leave the peace and security of Long Island to talk to me about a girl?"

"Not just _a_ girl. _The_ girl," she asserted. "I've known you all of your life, and well, I've never seen you quite like that."

"Like what?"

She halted for the theatrics, and then guffawed, throwing her head back in pleasure, "Like Maes!"

Her laughter was infectious, her jests positively missed. And he felt his lips curl into a smile. He'd missed this. He'd missed her.

Soothingly, she reached out and patted his hand. "So, what will you do now?"

He shrugged. "Maes thinks I should marry her, but I think I should give her the chance to run away."

"Why is that? Is it hesitation on her end?" she ventured, playing the protective hen.

"No, not like that…" The doctor raked his fingers through his hair, clenching his jaw so hard it ached. "There's the kids, and then there's the Hughes-Mustang family and my close associations with them. Life with me is not exactly… smooth sailing," he mumbled his own hesitation.

Aunt Chris chuckled, and she went on and sprinkled a small amount of her endless wisdom, "Destiny is a funny thing, Roy-boy. You never know how things are going to work out. But if you keep an open mind and an open heart, I promise things will work itself out. Besides, Riza is still here, even after everything that's happened. Don't you think you should also give her the chance to stay?"

As a young, rebellious child, he would stomp his feet and disagree. But now, he could only concede with a reluctant nod, knowing she was right. And while his doubt remained, there was a flicker of a chance that everything would indeed come together. He smiled. Maybe.

Just maybe.

"Good. Now that that's settled, I've got something you might like. And I would have visited you sooner if it hadn't taken Madeline a few days to retrieve it for me."

Like Houdini, her prowess to astonish always left his mouth agape, ever since he was old enough to appreciate the woman and her unorthodox rearing after his parents' death. Her thick hand produced a maroon, velvet box, and Chris placed it in his sweaty palm. "I remember your mother having very slender fingers. Riza is taller and fuller than her, so I imagine it might fit a bit tight. Ask Maes for Mr. Solomons' contact. He'll fit it perfectly for you."

When he opened the box, a brilliant blue glimmered white against the stream of sunlight, the sapphire round and smooth and cut sizeably. Like a tiny tiara, the silver filigree of rosebuds held the stone in place, running around the chain until it was sleek and plain around the arc. Roy had forgotten about it, but it was still as spectacular and striking as he remembered.

The last time he had seen his mother with her ring was when he was six years old, her soft hand clasped within his father's. His lips quivered once more, and a healthy gloss turned his vision hazy.

Maybe he'd cry after all.

* * *

A/N: I'm contemplating finishing the last 7 chapters first, and then posting them on a weekly schedule. Maybe.


	18. Good Intentions, True Intentions

A/N: I hope all of you are well! If you're affected by the wildfires (like me), stay safe and indoor. Them smoke's no joke.

* * *

**Chapter 18: Good Intentions, True Intentions**

It was the same man. And the same boy, with the same frown on his face. He looked more and more like Georgie the more Riza peered at him, complete with his endearing, petulant pout. His curls were the color of milk and coffee; they fell long, looping outward around the high collar of his worn out, winter jacket.

As before, they were tossing bread crumbs to fat, well-fed pigeons scattered around Central Park. The man's arm looped around the child's shoulder, taut and protective. The boy extended a reluctant palm, offering with obvious fear of the pecking birds, but the man—his father, Riza presumed—urged him with a light pat on his head.

What a coincidence to come across them again in this section of the park where nobody else remained.

But her stomach suddenly churned with something else urgent, and Riza set her apprehension aside for the undeniable signs her mind kept rejecting. Her hand flew to the rescue, resting above her navel, over the smooth satin of her ankle-length evening dress. But the familiar pressure persisted and hurtled upward like a massive projectile, desperate for a way out, making her swallow her own lunch again. She stuck her tongue out and nipped it in between her teeth; the taste was repulsive.

When it was over, a wave of emotions would sweep her up, rattling her bones and freezing her blood. Like now. And then it would ditch her at the dingy street corner, leaving her with cold perspirations, helpless and scared. It would then repeat day after day, usually during the most inopportune of times.

Ceaselessly, her circumstance made her long for the conveniences of her era. At least then she could be sure.

A gentle hand brushed down her arm, startling her.

"Jean and Rebecca are here," Roy announced quietly.

A whirl of arctic wind charged in their direction, shaking the clusters of yellow-red gingko leaves from the tree towering above them. Surprised, Roy touched the blade of his nose as one spiraled down and hit his face, catching it in time before it fluttered to the ground. He corrected the tweed flat cap over his immaculately styled black hair, and casually slipped the fan-shaped leaf into the thick cascade of her silky curls.

"Beautiful," he said and smiled. A simple comment, but it made her emotional.

The rustle up ahead signaled Rebecca's entrance. Jean trailed a few steps behind as she rushed forward and pirouetted gracelessly among the motley mound of raked-up leaves like an overeager ballerina. Crushes of dried brown leaves clung to the bottom ends of her fur coat, but she didn't seem to have a care in the world.

When Rebecca saw her, she let her focus settle and yelled her name out loud, exuding ebullience that prompted Riza's neck to crank to the side, looking away. Riza reciprocated with a feeble raise of her hand when she shouted again, just for the sake of being polite, but humiliation swept her up at the attention her friend demanded. The pigeon feeder boy looked on curiously, and his father—the lanky giant—kept his eyes trained on them, judging.

Rebecca huffed and puffed at the end of her ballet sequence. "Did you wait long?" she asked, panting.

"Not too long," Riza murmured.

"It was only thirty minutes. No big deal," Roy sneered at her side, and Rebecca stuck out her tongue at the doctor.

"Do you know how long they made me wait at the doctor's office? Over an hour. Fair game when it comes to you," the brunette chided with an incriminating finger.

Their antics inspired a muted smile, and for a long while as Riza watched, the promise of the night slowly washed over her with speckles of delight. Nothing but a playful jab at Rebecca to lighten the mood.

Her friend harrumphed as Roy remarked on the woman's widening hips, but swiftly collected her cool, gyrating to Riza in an exaggerated fashion. She dismissed him and his imperceptible smirk, shooing him towards Jean, who gladly filled her spot with a cordial greeting to the doctor.

"I found these sets of earrings at Tiffany's the other day. Made of kunzites, which is the most gorgeous lilac gemstone I have ever seen," Rebecca began. Her friend sighed dramatically and swung her neck to one side, a dreamy glaze placating the menacing strokes of her caked-on face.

"Isn't Tiffany's a bit too expensive?"

"It is, but I casually mentioned it to Jean one time, and he said he'd buy me something similar."

"Really?" Riza said with the same skepticism for the occult. "I would have thought you'd prefer the real gem from Tiffany's."

"Yeah, well, I'm not the gold digger you think I am. Like you, I'd be willing to settle for a similar gift, especially if it's from someone I adore," she refuted with a delicate snort.

"Hold on. I never said you were a gold digger," Riza replied defensively.

Rebecca winked. "I know. I was just messin' with ya."

"Oh, speaking of jewelry-" Riza interjected with an alerting finger. She fished for the ornate locket she found the night they deliberated with Armstrong. Unlatching the clasp, she faced the inside towards the brunette, flashing her the picture of the young boy that resembled her friend ever so slightly. "I found this. Could it be yours?"

Her eyes bulged like an owl. She rounded her mouth to speak, but thought better of it, and was quick to swear that the trinket was not hers; something she had never before seen in her life.

Riza had been sure it was hers.

Tentatively, Riza slipped it back inside the beaded reticule where she'd kept it stored and spun to find Roy. He was still chatting with Jean, trading friendly grins that brightened the traces of pink below the office manager's lazy gaze. Jean had been enjoying himself, Riza thought; a little swig of alcohol would undoubtedly turn his face that particular shade.

A procession of luxury cars pulled up beside them—Rolls Royces and a Duesenberg—and an ostentatious group of men in homburg hats, fitted suits, and laced up oxfords emerged from the shiny doors. There were three of them. Breda alighted last, his shoulders squared, his lips stern. Riza recognized them as Maes' complete set of security details.

From inside the car, Maes called out. Closest to the sidewalk, Riza leaned in through the half open window and found the mobster wrapped in the most extravagant tuxedo jacket, black bow tie and his hair slicked back, looking dapper and overdressed. Or maybe she was underdressed, Riza decided. Gracia sat next to him looking as resplendent as her husband in an ivory velvet, her bony fingers caressing her huge, pregnant belly.

"Get Havoc over here. I want to talk to him," Maes ordered, beckoning with his hand.

Riza stepped aside and Jean poked his head through. Soon, he nodded profusely, and when Rebecca with all of her unrestrained curiosity stood close enough to listen in to their exchange, her lips downturned, looking displeased.

It wasn't long before they were all ushered into the vehicles. Maes and Gracia were at the front of the cavalcade, Jean and Rebecca shoved into the last one of three. With two gun-wielding, strict-looking chaperones in the front seat, Riza bound herself to silence and prayed they weren't counting the number of times her hitched breath escaped through her mouth in a soft hiss.

Beside her, Roy slid nearer until their knees pressed together. He tucked a wayward strand behind her ear, running careful fingers down her growing locks.

"What do you reckon Maes is up to?" he whispered.

"I'm not sure," she mumbled. "But I did tell him I don't feel safe having him walk around Central Park, even with his scary looking agents surrounding him."

He smiled down at her—a smile that only lit up his whole face. "Ah, so it's your fault Jean won't be experiencing that carriage ride then. And those delicious cinnamon buns they sell every year—he's going to miss out on that, too."

The ice broke, and she smiled with him. "I'm sure whatever Maes has planned will be nice. Maybe instead of cinnamon buns, we'll get a rich chocolate cake." The image of a most decadent, ganache lathered, silky chocolate gateau rose up in her mind. Something Riza had been drooling over for the last two days. And it killed her that such confectionary was nowhere to be found in Woodside.

He was a bundle of doubt and suspicion as he squinted at her. "Hmm. It was vanilla pudding a few days ago, which Alphonse gladly whipped up for you. And then on Thursday… what was it? Deep fried candy bars?"

"I was just saying. Besides, I never got my deep fried candy bars." Riza shrugged, nonchalantly, with the hopes he wouldn't decipher her intense craving for desserts past a casual comment. Roy was keen; Roy was observant, her hypersensitive brain warned her.

"And now you talk about chocolate cake like you've been thinking about it for days."

She _had_ been thinking about it for days.

He poked the tip of her nose, grinning, making her wince in surprise. "As a doctor, it is my job to advise you about your sweets intake. Weight gain is a real thing, even for a dainty thing like you."

"Oh, I eat my sweets in moderation," she said, her sass showing, "and it's not like I've had plenty of those since I arrived," she continued to protest. "If it makes you feel better, I've never been overweight. Fast metabolism, morning exercise, and a large dollop of stressful days will do the trick. Also, Gracia is dainty. I'm more… robust."

An affectionate hand slid into her hair again, and he stroked the flaxen waves with playful designs, twirling them around his fingers, untangling them with care. He looked at her, spilling adoration that made her avert her gaze in self-consciousness. But his relaxed countenance contorted over time... and her trepidation over what he would say next began to double, triple in size.

"You look like you've been in your own little world for a while now," he said with a breathy voice and stared into her, plying the truth out of her with those thoughtful eyes. "A penny for your thoughts, _a ghrá_?"

But the car suddenly sputtered to a stop, rescuing her from what she hadn't said, and one of the agents declared, "We're here, sir, ma'am."

With efficiency, the same agent stepped out to clear a path on the overcrowded pavement while the other rounded the car to open the curbside door. She was transported to the heart of Times Square, wreathed in bouncing, vibrant lights and a crowd of stylish youngsters heading into their evening's entertainment. December decked the architecture in strings of English holly, vivid red poinsettias dotting the entrances of the theatres across the street, eye-catching neon signs that spelled "burlesque" winking at her.

Standing before her was a movie theater, dark and abandoned from the outside, advertising its lone film, _The Phantom of the Opera_, in black, all capital letters over a dimly glowing marquee. A movie Gracia had been dying to see. Riza recognized the famous names displayed right below: Lon Chaney, Norman Kerry, Mary Philbin. Hollywood actors from the Golden Age, alive. Such a surreal and strange concept.

Once inside, the downward hill of red-clad chairs enough to seat one hundred people left her jaw to drop. Both sides, to her left _and_ her right, were vacant. Maes had booked the entire movie theater for them. To say she was amazed was an understatement. He treated his friends as well as he treated his family, and money was never an issue. Riza heeded the Art Deco pillars that bore bold streaks of triangular carvings at the base, and then drifted her admiration up to the high ceiling that secured a row of humongous, three-tiered chandeliers that would certainly be found in castles across Europe.

An usher with a pencil-thin mustache, who was most probably another of Armstrong's minions, told Roy they could choose where to sit and that tonight's food menu would be brought out to them shortly, which would then be served at the start of the show. Something like this would cost a fortune in Y2K New York, and the cinema would still have to be shared with oodles of paying patrons.

Gracia waddled her way through the descent, Maes holding her hand and guiding her with every step like the overprotective husband he was. They perched way down towards the center, into the best seats in the house, and flagged an attendant, who rapidly returned with a tray of water pitcher and empty glasses in the same minute.

Maria was here too, Riza noticed, guarding the mobster's wife from the seat behind her. The detective refused the menu brought out to her and promptly returned to concentrate on her charge, the dutiful officer through and through. Contrastingly, Rebecca and Jean chose to luxuriate near the big screen, some kind of turquoise concoctions already in hands, and plopped themselves into their seats much like tireless children testing the bounciness of their new beds.

Their menu arrived in French, and between _potage d'oiseau_ and _soupe de canard_, Riza really couldn't figure out the difference between one soup and the next. Her mastery of the language was paltry at best.

"It's _poisson!_" Roy whispered gustily into her ear. He underlined the bold cursive heading a list of fish dishes beneath and feigned a shock. "I'm afraid Maes is trying to kill us."

Unamused, Riza confronted his mischief-lined grin and pinched his cheek as though he was five years old. "Behave yourself."

The doctor snickered. "You looked so serious. I thought I'd cheer you up a bit."

"Well, why is everything in French?" she growled. As much as she adored _Le français_, her heightened emotions had had her temper vacillating like a rowboat in a sea storm.

"We _are_ watching _Le Fantôme_," he enlightened. "Maes is probably just trying to impress Gracia."

Subsequently, Roy kept himself occupied by perusing the menu, _ooh_'ing and _ahh_'ing in discreet at the ample selection of desserts. She could still hear him. Disappointed, Riza sighed at the absence of chocolate cake and peered through a narrow slit at _tarte normande _and _religieuse_. Neither sounded like chocolate nor cake. At one point, Roy tapped an item on the parchment paper and nudged her lightly.

"So, they don't have chocolate cake, but they have soufflé. I'm sure we can ask them for chocolate soufflé," he suggested. "Do you want that?"

"It's not the same," she said matter-of-factly.

He tried again and pointed to another. "How about beignets? It's not deep fried candy bars, but it's still deep fried."

She flattened her lips in consideration, unconvinced of the satisfaction it would offer, but eventually conceded when Roy lifted supplicating eyes, looking like a despairing man on a mission to appease his cranky wife.

"Okay," Riza laughed mildly. "Beignets are fine."

A grin blossomed on his handsome face, and the doctor punched the air in victory.

Dinner arrived on a fancy platter, looking like absolute heaven. The courses were served one at a time—appetizer, soup, and then entree, placed atop a square folding table that was surprisingly stable. Sneaky servers slunk past and slipped away, removing her empty plates without her even realizing.

Her stomach felt fine after the main course, and Riza immediately attacked the plate of beignets when it came, gobbling the deep fried dough like there was no tomorrow. She earned a distended stare from Roy, a stunned gasp that was everything but subdued, as she popped the last bite into her mouth. She supposed he'd never seen her so hungry like that; she was usually a courteous eater with an unremarkable appetite.

Despite her love for the era, her enthusiasm for silent films only came in small doses. The phantom just made his first appearance, proclaiming himself as the nameless legend, and Christine Daaé was running for her life. A sudden bout of fatigue made Riza's head spin, the world instantly swimming in a sinuous lane with no end in sight. Starches and sugar make the worst combination, she soothed herself, although unsuccessfully.

The sensation ebbed and waned, and clinging onto her armrest was all she could do not to crumble. Christine Daaé never spoke once, but for a brief moment, she looked like she was. And when a spectral of Erik the Phantom suddenly appeared on the ceiling above her, she buried her face into the nook of Roy's shoulder and nuzzled herself against his arm, searching for comfort.

Roy jerked in his chair at the unexpected brush, and his warm hand quickly found her bangs, combing them aside so he could look her in the eyes.

"Riza? Are you feeling sick?" he asked worriedly. He placed the back of his hand on her forehead and gingerly picked up her limp wrist, his mouth moving to count in silent, the competent doctor at work.

But she shook her head, and the downward spiral had slowed enough she was able to roll on a smile, lifting the slightest edge off of his tight lips.

"Sorry. I was falling asleep for a bit there," she lied, selling her story with a big yawn. Immediately, she felt compunction twist in her chest. If Roy was suffering from fainting spells, she would want to know.

"Really, I'm fine," she asserted when he glanced warily. She _did_ feel better now.

Relief, as infinitesimal as it was, shone in the form of a soundless sigh. Roy patted her hand softly. "It's that boring, huh? Should we just talk about something then? I don't think the movie is even halfway through."

"Sure..." she acquiesced with a nod, and mentally prayed her malady would no longer be coming in drones.

The doctor leaned back into his chair, but took her hand and trapped it chastely between his legs, as if he believed his hand-holding would keep her upright and awake.

"You can tell me what you didn't get to say in the car?" he hedged. When she remained wordless, he hemmed and amended, "So, I don't think I've asked you much about where you came from… I guess I was scared that you'd miss it too much, but I've always been curious."

"What do you want to know about it?" she murmured.

"Well… what do you miss about it?" he repeated.

Quietly, Riza hummed, staring beyond the moving picture before her, looking but not seeing. Different snapshots of all she left behind began to take shape, and for a moment they were everything she could see. Every impression. Every detail.

"There are _some_ things I miss," she began carefully. "For one, I miss how easy it is to travel…"

When she turned to him, he nodded but said nothing. She took it as an indication to continue.

"If I wanted to go to Los Angeles for a vacation, or needed to attend an academic conference in Boston, I could just fly there and arrive in a few short hours. I miss the convenience of the subway—not the subway you have now, but the more modern, filthier one we have in the future," she chuckled. "It's fast, and quite reliable."

"But you said it's filthy," Roy reminded her, poking fun.

"Yes. I've come across vomit and spilled drinks and food way too many times. I even had to do the subway samba once just so I could avoid dog feces. Or maybe it was human..." she groaned in distaste.

Roy laughed, as quietly as he could in the middle of a pivotal scene.

And then she remembered Maes' injured leg, and how his limp had prevented him from enjoying the solace of Riverside Park, stumbling along the paved lanes rather than speeding against the wind on his trusted bicycle.

"We also have some of the best physicians and surgeons, and the most advanced medical technologies you can find. Like the stitches on Maes's leg—he'd probably be left with a tiny scar rather than a big one across his thigh," she pointed out. "And with what we know about physical therapy then would probably help him walk normally again."

"I know what you mean about modernization. We're constantly trying to outdo ourselves with every invention, but really, there's never going to be an end destination; it will only improve year after year. It's an exciting prospect, knowing what's in store for us," Roy mused with a thumb on his chin, bobbing his head in introspection. And then he rotated his body until he faced her completely, his dark gaze crowing with an understanding. "You must miss teaching at the university. Unlike me, you don't get to do what you love anymore."

"I do miss it... especially so with research and unearthing new discoveries. It's the thrill of anticipation, followed by a great sense of accomplishment. And it's strange to miss it, because I am _exactly_ where I want to be." And she reassured him further when her face broke into a beam, wide and confident. It was true.

He grinned. "Not sleepy anymore, right?"

Mirth rumbled in her chest, and she cupped his cheek in gratitude. "Definitely not."

In turn, Roy extended his strong arm towards her and gently cradled her neck, bringing his face into hers. The flickering screen limned his cheek in a white luster. He was so close. And she felt herself holding her breath, her head growing dizzy with love. The doctor smiled, a slight dimple pricking his cheek, and he proceeded to place a kiss on her forehead, and then her temple, letting his affection linger a second longer.

"And I know you know this," he added somberly, an abrupt change from the brief, happy interlude a moment ago. "But if you ever want to talk about something—_anything at all_," he emphasized, "I'm here for you."

And Riza watched his true intentions, unmistakably, float across his expression, a bright yellow balloon in a sky of black. She bowed her assent and clutched the crinkled fabrics across her stomach.

Time would reveal in due course.

The movie ended, and the Hugheses found themselves stranded on the curbside as their details went around the block to fetch their ride home. Unlike a few other agents who were strolling up and down the street, Maria and Heymans never strayed far. Always standing by them like a pair of protective hounds, with their ears perked and teeth bared, ready to strike, whenever someone steered near a little too closely.

There were also less people now. Less cars. It was only five minutes past ten, but everyone seemed to have gone to bed early on a Sunday night. And the air smelled cleaner for a change. Earth and mildew, like pine needles on a bed of wet soil, dusted with the occasional sweet sting of perfumes from passersby.

As he had done for the entirety of the day, Maes held his wife by the elbow with one supportive arm around her rotund waist, his concerns for her forever stamped on his weary face. He'd probably be this way until their baby was born. Rebecca stomped frenetic feet against the pavement, expelling the frigidity with frantic hands that ran up and down her limbs, her white teeth chattering.

"Your coat's here," Riza pacified, noting the blond office manager coming towards them.

She watched Jean drape warmth over her friend's shoulders, his sheepish, little smile arousing curiosity. Riza had _so many_ questions about what had occurred in the darkness of the auditorium. Reciprocally, Rebecca returned his delight with one of her own. One that seemed to promise there was more to come.

With a broad grin, Riza asked, "Did you have a good time?"

"Yes," Becca whispered covertly, twisting her neck to measure the distance in which Jean stood. He was far enough that he wouldn't hear. A plume of haze from the butt of his cigarette coiled into the sky as he conversed with Heymans. "This was much better than whatever I had planned for the park. In a way, I'm glad this happened instead," Rebecca said, relieved.

Riza smiled. "That's good to hear."

"Anyway, we're gonna leave. I'm stopping by Jean's for a nightcap." Then she placed both hands on each of Riza's shoulders, the deep crinkles around her eyes sincere and heartfelt. She kissed Riza on the cheek—a cold, tidy kiss. "Get home safely, Riza. All of you."

"Thanks. You, too," Riza echoed, and watched the brunette twirl her way into Jean's arms, dragging him away from the dwindling night.

"She looked happy," Roy remarked from her left.

Absentmindedly, Riza stretched her gloved fingers and scrubbed at the shivers along her arms. "Of course. She's been waiting for this day for a long time."

Roy shifted to stand behind her and opened his big coat, bundling her within with swathing arms, melding her into him. His chin tucked on her shoulder, he murmured, "You're cold."

"Yep. Winter is here." And she sighed contentedly, her stiff figure unwinding in the pleasant heat.

A car zoomed towards them at a brisk speed, whooshing through the multi-lanes without regard for the few that warned it with a loud, elongated honk. From far away, it looked like Hughes' Rolls Royce, black and polished. But in close proximity it was round around the hood rather than boxy, the passenger side windows rolled all the way down.

Maes would always keep the windows up with Gracia being prone to the chill. His drivers were well aware of that, Riza was certain.

As it neared, two men stuck their long noses out the open windows, their homburg hats, much like the ones Maes' agents wore, shadowing the top half of their faces. But Riza perceived the wicked slashes of their mouth in the obscurity, followed by a set of intense eyes that bore malice as their chins tilted up in triumph.

And then she saw it.

The Tommy guns.

Ones she recognized from her own written publication. The gangster's preferred weapon.

And they shot.

Riza emitted a strangled gasp as she felt her own heartbeat pick up, racing like a whipped thoroughbred. The only things separating them from the shooters were a bolted-down mailbox the size of a mini fridge and a topless, cream-painted Model T that began to rattle side to side at the unexpected outburst. But she was down on the ground as fast as lightning, lying prostrate against the concrete with Roy hunching over her.

He had saved her. He had knocked her down, she thought.

An explosive blast from her right pierced the air. Again, again, and _again_. Until it clicked empty and she smelled smoke—the distinguished whiff of gunpowder. Maes's agents were shooting back. They must be. A vehicle skidded garishly against asphalt, the sound fading into the distance. Then a pandemonium punctured the once peaceful night—a deafening boom, the thudding and beating of boots fraternizing with smothered shrieks.

"Maes, Gracia, are you alright?!" Roy shouted, his fears ringing above her, warring with the harsh, sustained hissing in her ears.

"W-we're fine," Maes replied in his own aghast stupor, his soulful baritone cracking. Then he added a second later, his voice steadier, reality finally kicking in, "But Agent Miles is a goner… and so is Buc. Jaysus fucking Christ..."

Feebly, Riza picked herself up on her feet, leaden and inflexible like metal pipes, and fortified herself with a helping hand from Roy. With an assertive nod and an insistent hand, she reassured him of her fitness when he scrutinized her for injuries from head to toe.

The terror lasted all of ten seconds but it lengthened like an hour. The car disappeared as the panic and horror and dread beneath her ribcage began to mount, struggling to leave. And they latched on, leech-like, even as she released her breath.

"Stay here. Don't move," Roy commanded, but his rising panic was palpable.

Nearby, a litter of broken glass spilled across the sidewalk, the cinema's ticket counter pierced with bullet holes. The doctor barreled across them as he knelt next to Gracia, who was shielded by the gloom of the tall booth and too stunned to say anything. Her hands were cradling her stomach possessively.

A writhing body curled several feet behind her, wheezing, choking. She gasped when she found Maria clutching at her breasts, a deep crimson staining her trench coat like a big puddle. On her knees, Riza scrambled towards the agent, her eyes stung with worry, her mind squalling with an escalating _no, no, no!_

"Maria... Maria! No, no, no," Riza croaked, uttering her dread, her hands hovering over the woman's bleeding chest. Then her voice began to strengthen, and she bellowed, summoning help, "Maria is down!"

But the commotion wasn't over. As Riza rose up to make space for Heymans, a slender man with a towering height stood across an empty crosswalk, a gun poised in his hand. He aimed it towards Maes, who was too preoccupied with his thunderstruck wife as he rocked her into calm. The few pedestrians that lingered around the gunner reared back in fright. He moved a step forward. Riza's eyes widened when she realized who it was.

It was the same man from the park. The pigeon feeder father with the pigeon feeder boy.

But now, it was just the father. Alone and purposeful.

Riza could warn the mobster. She could shout his name and tell him to duck. Instead, she dove for the Colt that nestled beside Maria. And then she pointed it at the man.

The sound of her bullet sliced through the hissing wind as she pulled the trigger.

In an instant, the man fell to the ground and seized his hemorrhaging thigh. His face was a tangle of anger and pain, his unfired weapon dropped where her vision could no longer track. He glared at her and hastily turned the other way, his hands and his one good leg dragging his hulking mass to safety.

But it was too late. Maes' head of security had bared his fangs and arched a fighting stance, a hungering slobber all around his mouth. Heymans emptied his chamber into the man's back, precise and quick. Cold and merciless. Finishing the job that she could not.

The hitman slumped down like a wilting stem, his posture genuflecting, begging for his life. But he never moved again. And her heart stopped beating for a while.

But it wasn't the onlookers' harrowing screams that Riza heard next. It wasn't the fast approaching, red-and-blue siren of police cars that spun her head in the other direction. It was Gracia and her spine-chilling wail, the startling sight of blood that rapidly spread across her abdomen, bathing everything below her waist in an Atlantic of red.


	19. Forever and a Day

A/N: One of the mysteries solved in this chapter!

* * *

**Chapter 19: Forever and a Day**

For the third time that morning, Roy begged his brother, both hands seizing the man's shoulders. He tightened his hardy grip. "Maes, _please_ go home and get some sleep. I'll stay here and watch her." Unheeded, the doctor had beseeched, hissed, and snarled, turning displeased heads in his direction until he had grown scarlet with embarrassment.

"Maes? Are you listening?" the doctor growled, his teeth grinding in exasperation.

But Maes continued to gaze past him, detached, indifferent, bringing his lit cigarette into his mouth. A coil of smoke drifted up into the high, vaulted ceiling of the hospital as he drew another puff. He sighed, and finally muttered his answer with a shaky voice tinged with restlessness, "You can't. You promised you will talk to Armstrong on my behalf. And the forecast says you have one hour."

Along the stark white corridor stood Kain Fuery with his clasped hands behind an upright back, Maes' trusted man once more. He made sure access into the mobster's wife's recovery room was as restricted as the entrance into Hades. The detective sported a crisp trench coat, fresh faced and alert, the cut above his eye fully healed with the teeniest hint of a scar. He had brought another of Armstrong's agents—a huge, bald man who could probably crush a man's skull with simply the strength of his bare hands—to relieve Breda from the last twenty-four hours of watching and patrolling.

It had been ten days since the fateful evening. And it had been ten long days and sleepless nights since they mourned a baby girl who never cried, so still and small with the softest wisps of tawny hair that mirrored her mother's. The whole affair had taken a great toll. Gracia hadn't spoken since, and Maes had gone on too long without a proper meal and bath and rest, sleeping an hour at a time on a stiff armchair. How he produced only a few, short-lived kinks in his neck was a miracle. The bowl of hearty chicken soup Riza had prepared for him the night before was left untouched. Always. As were the other meals she had thoughtfully packed into a brown bag in the last week.

Through the slit in the door, Roy peeked in to find Gracia lying on one side, her knees tucked closely into her now flat stomach. The hospital gown she wore was a thin swaddle of cotton, but she'd had the blanket kicked to puddle at her naked feet. In deference, Riza kept a silent vigil on the rickety chair beside her cot, lingering a doleful stare at the woman curled before her. Roy hadn't heard as much as a greeting from either woman.

"You can't protect Gracia anymore than Kain and Alex can," the doctor reminded him as he confronted his brother again.

He plainly murmured, "I know."

"At least eat the food we brought you?" Roy implored.

His head thudding against the wall, the mobster grunted his acquiescence, "Fine."

"Riza and I will get going then. We'll be back as soon as we're done."

But Maes grabbed his forearm, catching him by surprise. "Hey," he started. Puffing a sickly amount of tobacco while dismissing Roy's pleas for his own welfare seemed to be the only activity the mobster had been keen on in the past few days. This was unexpected. "Are you sure you want to do this?" Maes solicited.

He frowned. "If I didn't want to do this I would have said so."

Maes brought his hands up in submission. "I just want to make sure." And with an imperceptible nod, from gratitude or relief, he added, "Thanks, Roy."

"Of course."

It was no more than two seconds before Riza emerged from the room. Her lips were sealed shut, and she sunk her eyes to the ground, averting them from his own inquiry and Maes' dreary glance. Despair had been a cold hearted beast, an all-pervading presence in these darkest hours, leaving little room for grief and better days. It hadn't spared him, and it certainly hadn't spared Riza.

Roy acknowledged her with an encouraging smile, wishing to see a break from her misery, but Riza merely blinked and took the place beside him in silence. Her fingers remained at her waistband, fiddling with the pleated trim of her dark skirts.

Gracia had refused to leave the hospital, and Maes had been too distraught and brokenhearted to persuade her to return home. Instead, he had been here just as long as she had. Day after day, Riza had made it her mission to visit while still going through the motions of her routine—tutoring Edward, cooking dinner with Alphonse, entertaining Georgie with what mischief he had up his sleeves. But every night Roy would find her awake, staring at the ceiling, a cloud of thoughts above her with no reassurance she would part with any of it.

And as he saw her then, Roy, impulsive and overburdened, set aside his pledge to keep his nighttime to himself. The children would understand, he had convinced himself. This was beyond conventions and appropriate behaviors. In the moonlit space, he had slipped into bed beside her, pulling her towards him and tucking her against his chest. He didn't attempt a conversation or coax even a single sound. He simply held her. And most nights, she clung onto him, her breaths ragged but her lips quiet still.

They slogged through a warren of patients' rooms, reaching the lobby, and then past it. His eyes were bound for a way out of the chilly, bone-white hallways of the hospital, but his musings were elsewhere—on his family's plight, on Riza and her busy mind, on Armstrong and the things they needed to do. It was too late when the doctor realized he had stepped into the next ward, halting in front of a rectangular window that gave view into the sacred wonders within.

The newborn nursery was a big, colorful box of bird-and-branch papered walls and sheets of wooden planks. It was a lush oasis in the middle of a grueling, colorless desert. Ivory and frilly, the hooded bassinets that resembled handwoven baskets were arranged in a long, tidy row. The babies were in fitful sleep; one began to wail and another stirred underneath their cotton blankets. He had never held one before, but he was as good as a father to three demanding adolescents. And the realization caught his breath and lodged a stone in his breastbone.

How would Maes and Gracia feel standing here, in this spot? Would it give them a glimmer of hope? Or would it plunge them further into gloom?

He wouldn't dare imagine. Not now.

Evidently, Riza hadn't paid any more attention than he had as they trudged through the halls. It wasn't until she heard the piercing cries that she lifted her chin up and swept her widened eyes across the bundles of little miracles.

Roy turned to her, examining the breathless, gaping mouth that seemed to give voice to her muffled thoughts. He angled the corner of his lips into a smile, shrugging. "I guess we missed the exit."

"Yeah," she murmured, still marveling at the creche. It was a long while before she raised her gaze elsewhere, glaring at the ground and then swinging it up at him. But she wasn't angry at him, he knew, even when the sharp slant of her brows seemed to indicate otherwise. "What do you think my grandfather was playing at?"

"Your grandfather?"

"If he knew there was nothing I could do to change anything, why would he bother to tell me to 'keep him safe'? He didn't tell me anything, but he could have said that at the very least. He's sending me on a fool's errand!" she fumed, her emotions climbing.

"I don't know, Riza," Roy admitted, shaking his head. "But we both know Maes is safe because of you."

"For now," she interjected.

"Have you ever considered that maybe you misheard? You mentioned your grandfather was very sick and could barely talk before he passed."

"No. Well…" she relented. Her shoulders sloped as she exhaled in resignation. "I was pretty darn sure of what I heard, but who knows really? I wasn't exactly in the right state of mind then."

"Even if you had heard properly, maybe your grandfather wasn't talking about Maes," he procured.

"Then who?" Riza countered a little aggressively. Though her countenance fell at once, and she touched him, tentatively, on his upper arm. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to raise my voice."

"It's alright. I know," the doctor placated. He tugged her gently by the hand and gathered her into him, stroking her hair as he felt a perceptible shudder along her willowy frame.

Her face burrowed into his winter coat, muffling her distress as she spoke, "How can you be so calm? Maria is on her deathbed, and Gracia is just lying there, not saying anything." And then she tipped her head up at him, scrutinizing, as though she would find her answers on his blatant composure.

"The war taught me how to _appear_ calm, but I'm not calm at all inside. Most days, I can barely contain it. I'm afraid, Riza. And I'm sad and I'm grieving. I'm at a loss of what to do, and I feel hopeless everytime I think of my brother and his wife. But I also don't want to worry you or the boys more than I already do."

A baby let out a howl from within the nursery, luring her away momentarily. But Riza returned with renewed agony that seemed to extend beyond their heated conversation—beyond the recriminations and the predicament the Hugheses found themselves in. She clasped his hands and gripped them so securely that he started swirling with his own disquiet.

"I imagined myself in Gracia's shoes," she began, her body trembling. At the revelation, droplets of tears started to spill down her cheeks, but she ploughed through her sadness with astounding fluency. "I wouldn't know what to do if I ever lose a child. And then to see my baby wrapped in a bundle like that... unmoving? Without a sound? It would break me; it would probably... kill me. I get it. I understand..."

She closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip so harshly Roy could see a globule of red forming. And again he saw when she finally surrendered to the grief and began to weep, unabashedly, her feelings unmasked and uninhibited. It was the first time he ever saw her cry. She sniveled as he enfolded her into a tight embrace, her hands crumpling the fabric at his back.

"I've got you. Just let it out," he shushed, planting fervid kisses on the crown of her head, pressing his cheek against her hair.

Her eyes were red and swollen when she looked up at him again. "Roy, there's something I have to tell you."

"There you are!" a voice interrupted. It was high pitched and animated.

Vanessa charged towards them with the urgency of someone fleeing a tropical cyclone. The strident clacking of her high heels sounded abrasive inside the serene wing. When the woman stopped short in front of them, Riza quickly withdrew from him and wiped at her tears-stained cheeks, her confession stashed away in an instant.

Along the shoulders of Vanessa's fur cocoon were water stains. A puddle of them. Even if the weather prediction hadn't been entirely accurate, it _was_ raining. Just as the radio announcer had declared at dawn. This meant they needed to get going.

"I waited for you as instructed and now I'm all wet! What happened?" Vanessa chided, her forehead crinkled in annoyance. Then she stole a couple seconds into the view behind the glass window and squealed at her findings, her troubles abandoned at once. "Oh my God, babies! How adorable!"

Roy harrumphed and shifted her concentration. "Sorry, we were just a little derailed. Shall we go to the car?" There was no time to waste. Armstrong would not be amenable to the delay, and every minute that passed could be spent catching the men who did this.

Besides, he had something else that needed taken care of today.

"Of course," she consented with a roguish wink. "I've got plenty to tell you, starting with a _yes_, both locations checked and confirmed."

At Vanessa's confirmation, Armstrong and her men would venture to two different locations that reportedly housed Frankie Yale's consiglieri. The rain would give the agents some cover in their surveillance, and the streets would be scarce of people, forcing the gangsters to rendezvous inside their homes. Gathering outside would be foolish; a large group of men in their black homburg hats, pinstripe suits, and quintessential stogies would stick out like sore thumbs.

Inside Roy's Studebaker, Vanessa removed her dripping gloves, moaning in despair at the nuisance. He glanced at Riza, who was wiping at her misty forehead, her uncoiffed blonde tresses dewed with tiny raindrops. She hadn't said a word. It was a Siberian winter in the car, but there was no better place to talk without a care, and it would make up for the time they had already lost. He switched the ignition and spurred the vehicle into life.

The doctor pulled out of the hospital lot, avoiding pools of water that flooded one side of the asphalt. Once he departed a pedestrian-rife alleyway and joined the traffic, he spoke, "Today's raid aside, Maes said he told you D'Aquila's assembling his old crew again. Did you find out when and where this would happen?"

From the back seat, Vanessa cackled, and then she stuck her long neck over the leather cushion separating front and back, settling her arms atop it.

"Lucky for you I am good at my job. It's happening on New Year's Eve at his house across from the Bronx zoo. One of Pollacia's trigger men was completely smoked the other night and he started babbling things he probably shouldn't have. I found out about the Bronx zoo part myself, by the way. I had to ask around."

He sensed Riza eyeing him, gauging his profile for credence in what had just been shared.

"How do you know for sure?" Roy asked, more to appease Riza than himself. Vanessa was as talented as Chris in the art of intel gathering, but Riza hadn't known that.

"I'm no Chris, but I've got my own tricks up my sleeves. I hung around the VIP room until one of the goons invited me in. Who can resist darling ol' _moi_ when most other girls looked like overweight clowns?" Vanessa said, teasing rather than tweeting conceit.

"More of Pollacia's men were inside, talking about Toto this, Toto that, 'Toto's got a tiny dick but got lots of dough from his time in Sicily so we should join up.' Vulgar men, let me tell you. Then I slipped a little Mickey Finn, and they started shouting at each other that they'll all be attending the same _party_ near the _zoo_," she enunciated the keywords to hint at their secret appointment. "Anyway, D'Aquila, Yale, and Pollacia together sounds like bad news. You should tell Maes to do something about it."

Her announcement stirred a reaction from Riza. She rotated around to the working girl—the one time Roy saw her looking so eager and frantic—and promptly asked the continuously chirping woman. "Do you think you can find out something for me, Vanessa?"

"What is it?" the woman asked, her tone distrustful yet curious.

Out of her poplin bag, Riza snatched an oval shaped locket and dangled it in front of her. "If you were able to find out where Rocco Valenti lived, then you can find out who the boy in the picture is," she proclaimed with certitude.

Rocco Valenti was the hitman Riza had crippled the night at the cinema. Unlike the stocky Anselmi, he was tall and lean, with a look so ordinary he had blended into the shadows like another New Yorker going about his harmless business. The worst of their kind. Contracted by the elusive Frankie Yale and Toto D'Aquila, no one else had knowledge of his whereabouts following a massive, media-covered trial in 1919 where he testified against the head of the Giordano crime family.

But Vanessa had uncovered not only his house address, but his assassination agenda and secret stash of rum, too. At the top of his list, Maes Hughes's name had jutted out of the page like stacks of gold bars inside a barren safe.

Deep inside, a part of him was glad Breda had been the one to finish the job. No matter how vicious and pitiless Valenti had been, Roy couldn't have Riza condemning herself. And she was not impervious to self-blame.

Just like him.

"I can try," Vanessa conceded. "Where should I start my search?"

"Chicago," Riza answered curtly and confidently.

Silence permeated, but Vanessa eventually replied, "I can check with a friend at the Four Deuces in Chicago. But it's a little far to be missing a locket all the way here in New York, don't you think?" She sounded skeptical.

"I have an inkling we might find something there," she asserted. "If not... well, I'll be relieved more than anything."

The police precinct appeared ominous in the deluge. Fog shrouded its gabled spire, and the lack of a soul on the half-lit street forced him to consider postponing his clandestine errand to another day. He needed to ensure their safety after all.

The engine exhaled a snake-like hiss as the car jerked to a stop. Vanessa didn't hesitate unlatching the door, ushering in a gusty wind that nipped at his skin the moment she swung it open. He swept at his face when a sprinkle of rain splashed him in the eye.

"Whoops, sorry," Vanessa giggled, narrowing the gap in the door. "Should have warned you I was gonna do that."

She proceeded to pat Roy on the shoulder, who, in turn, graciously spun towards her and voiced his thanks. Then the woman spied into the front seat and appraised Riza, from her blonde head to the folded hands in her lap, moving center and affixing a prolonged stare at her breasts. Vanessa tapped a manicured finger to her painted lips and hummed curiously to herself. Riza, who began to dart her eyes left and right, seemed unsettled by the whole thing.

And so was he.

But Vanessa went on without so much as an explanation. "I was going to ask you to a dinner date with me, Roy, but I think I know when to admit defeat."

"Wait-" he started to say.

But Vanessa exited the vehicle and mouthed a silent "see you" through the speckled window. She embellished her farewell with air kisses before disappearing into an alley behind the precinct.

"What was that about?" Roy muttered.

Riza's reply was dismissive. "No idea."

Then he twisted to face her and regarded her sheepishly. A twinge of guilt resurfaced. Although the concocted tale he had rehearsed the night before flowed out as smoothly as a steady rush of riverwater. "I have to go to the clinic to finish some urgent work. Will you be alright meeting Armstrong by yourself for a bit?"

If there was something Roy had been made aware of in the last six months, it was her streak of independence. And determination. Riza wasn't the kind to be coddled and sheltered. The absence of her parents at an early age, coupled with her grandfather's unconventional wisdom, surely computed into the equation.

"Yes. I know what I have to do," Riza ascertained.

"But do stay within the vicinity until I join you. I won't be long."

"Be careful." Her coy smile was an assurance in itself.

* * *

His black Studebaker chugged through Midtown Manhattan in the downpour. It was difficult to see past a few meters with the constant spray and dense fog settling it, and Roy had to continuously work the lever that would clear the torrent off of his windshield. He slowed to a crawl when he caught a glimpse of a bleached bronze building, familiar in his memory. Above the deep blue awning was the flickering sign for Solomons & Sons.

Once inside, a man behind the counter—barely older than himself—greeted him with a respectful bow. His head was a copse of dark curls, with strips of hair connecting each side of his jaw to his bearded chin. Through a twine of spectacle that nestled low on his beaky nose, the jeweler eyed him carefully as Roy sidled up to the glass case that displayed their shiny offerings.

"Hello. Mr. Solomon was helping me the last time I was here. He called about a week ago that it was ready for pick up."

"Doctor Mustang, yes?" the man asked with a polite smile.

Solomons & Sons was one of those high-end establishments where they spent hours drilling in every one of their clients' names and their corresponding portrait. No wonder Maes had recommended it to him. It was in line with his uppity standards.

"Doctor Mustang, Mr. Solomon is my father. He is currently visiting our other branch in Queens, but I can help you. My name is Alfie, and you are here for the fitted engagement ring, yes?"

A single nod from the doctor sent Alfie prancing through the swinging set of doors that led him to the back of the store. He returned within the minute with a kind of satisfied beam, laying out two velvet ring boxes in front of him—one that Roy recognized as his mother's and a slightly larger one he had never seen before.

The jeweler slid the maroon box towards him before piling his one hand on top of the other, looking thoroughly dignified. "Here you go, sir. Take a look and let us know what you think."

Upon inspection Roy took notes of the fittings they'd made. The band had been stretched, clearly larger than before, though he could not ascertain any blemishes in the process. And the sapphire, bursting with different shades of blue, appeared to invite in more light than he remembered.

Alfie must have understood his curiosity, because the man went out of his way to produce a white light with a small desk lamp that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. He shone it over the stone. "We hand polished your gem. Now you can see how clear the colors are, yes? And we made sure not to damage the structure of the ring when we resized it. We only hire the best people," he remarked proudly.

"I think it looks great, Alfie. I can't tell at all it had gone through resizing."

"Thank you, sir. I hope your intended will love it as much as I do."

The doctor placed the ring back in its slot and then gestured to the other box—the one whose pillowy edges were stitched with gold leaves. "And what's that?"

"Ah, this." Alfie opened the box to reveal two rings, the shank chiseled into an intricate garland of leaves in the omission of a gemstone. One of them was bigger than the other. A pair of wedding bands, Roy thought. And they looked much too similar to the ring that forever nested in the depth of his coat pocket. He hadn't looked at it again since he showed it to his brother.

"Mr. Hughes was adamant about the design of these rings," Alfie went on to say. "But my father made a clever suggestion in the choice of metal—which Mr. Hughes agreed to—after he heard about you and your lady's story. I have to say it is a wonderful story."

It was not at all what Roy thought the man was going to say.

Dread pooled in his throat. "Uh, what did my brother say… exactly?"

"You both found a missing ring on the cobblestones by the Brooklyn waterway. When she bent down to pick it up, you did the same. You both hit your heads in the process, and that's how you started talking. Mr. Hughes said it was very romantic, and I have to agree. What are the chances, yes?" he commented delightfully.

Not entirely true. Although Maes had hit a little too close to home with their purported location.

"My father thought the design was a little plain, so he suggested a special kind of metal for these bands," Alfie continued, pinching one of the rings and sliding it into Roy's open palm. "This is made of platinum. It scratches more easily than silver or gold, but it is the most precious metal. Very expensive. Especially where these specific ones came from."

The doctor eyed him critically. "How expensive are we talking about?"

"Don't worry about the price, Doctor Mustang. Mr. Hughes is very generous and has already paid for these pairs in full."

His brows rose in alarm at the latest information. He placed the ring back on the counter. "Mr. Hughes did _what_?"

"You may take these with you. Mr. Hughes has paid for them," Alfie repeated and pushed the box towards him, washing his hands off of the matter. "Did he not tell you the story of where these platinum nuggets came from?"

In defeat, Roy could only shake his head. He should have known Maes would stick his nose in his romantic affairs. It shouldn't even faze him anymore.

Roy drafted a long sigh. "I haven't even proposed to her. What if she says no? Then I won't have any need for these."

"Mr. Hughes was certain she would accept," Alfie reassured. He grabbed a gift bag from beneath the display case and started to assemble it with wrapping tissues. Red, pink, and then more red. The colors of love, Maes would probably say. He took the box with the fitted ring and stuffed it inside, leaving the wedding bands out in full view. "And your brother hadn't shared with you the story of Clíodhna's Wave and Glandore Harbor, yes? I suppose I shall be the one to fill you in on the lore."

"It's an Irish folklore. I'm familiar with the story. The banshee queen Clíodhna fell in love with a mortal man named Ciabhán," Roy stated, surprising himself with the willingness to play along. He even went as far as pronouncing their names the way his mother had recited them when he was young. "But before she could join him in the mortal world, the sea god intervened and drowned her in the harbor of Glandore where she stopped for a night's rest."

"That's right," Alfie said. "And these nuggets were found in Glandore Harbor."

"Yeah, but that's not a love story. That's a tragedy," Roy grumbled, not understanding the jeweler's intention and insistence to tell the tale. Above all, his habitual yes's was starting to rankle.

"Yes, but Clíodhna is also known as the goddess of love and beauty. Everything she touched while she rested at Glandore was, supposedly, given magical properties. There are rumors abound about these ores bringing lovers together. Something Clíodhna longed for herself but could never have, yes?"

"But that's just it. This is a legend. A bedtime story. I can't fathom Maes paying extra simply for the romantic notions of some nuggets you found in Ireland," he argued. "I'm afraid I can't take these. Please return his money, and I'll gladly pay for your labor."

"We understand your concerns, and we absolutely agree," Alfie responded effortlessly. "I can assure you Mr. Hughes paid for the actual value of the platinum and not for the story. You must know that Ireland is not a platinum producer, so these are extremely rare as there are so few of them in the world."

Mr. Solomons' son clearly learned from the best. Alfie hadn't let up. He shoved the ring back into the doctor's hand and hinted at the miniscule engravings along the inner arc.

"These have been personalized per Mr. Hughes' request and unfortunately cannot be returned. Can you see the writing here?" Alfie fingered the delicate lean of cursive script.

The doctor brought it up to his nose and studied the words. "_In perpetuum... et unum... diem?_" he articulated them as they leapt out at him, bit by bit.

The persistent man lifted the matching set from within the box, the smaller one in size. He angled the ring with his long fingers until the phrase became legible under the desk lamp. "And this one says _Ex tempore_, which translates to 'out of the moment.' I suppose Mr. Hughes wanted to remind you of how you two met. Unexpectedly. Out of the moment, yes?"

And Roy could only stare dumbly as realization—the plausibility that everything Riza spoke of coming full circle—hit him squarely in the face.

"And do you know what that one means?" Alfie asked, pointing to the one clasped tightly in his hand.

Roy nodded absently.

"When you put them together, they sound beautiful, yes?"

"Yes." He could only agree.

_From this moment in time, forever and a day._

* * *

A/N: 5 more chapters to go. Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment if you have the chance :). Would love to hear from you.


	20. The End of All Our Exploring

A/N: What do I write fanfictions again? It's because I want to see my OTP in love and happy. And a big nod to "Beyond the Inferno," because that is one of my favorite FMAB episodes.

On another news, **flourchildwrites**, **waddiwasiwitch**, and I are running this year's FMA Secret Santa over on Tumblr at .com. We'd love it if you participate! Sign up opens tomorrow (today, for some of you)! :)

* * *

**Chapter 20: The End of All Our Exploring**

"Darius and Heinkel, fire exit. Alex and Breda, go in through the back. Heathcliff, one officer on each floor except top, and make sure the residents stay inside their homes. The rest of you are with me. We go in at 0200. We're almost there, boys," Olivier Armstrong announced, her strong voice inspiring duty on a frosty New Year morn. "Remember. No bopping these trouble sets, and don't fog'em unless your life depends on it!"

Six hours had passed.

One more to go.

"Chief?" With reluctance, Fuery tapped the detective on the shoulder. "I know I'm on guard duty, but I also know we're short and I can go in with you-"

Armstrong spun to him, arms akimbo. Her volume dropped to a menacing octave, and she shot him a dirty look. "Agent, _I said_, you are to stay out here with Doctor Mustang and Riza. Under no circumstances are you allowed to let these two out of your sight. And watch the comms."

"No one is listening in on the comm!" Fuery protested. "It's the New Year. Everyone is... partying..."

Fuery had begun with a defiance Roy had never seen before. Although the young detective's confidence quickly withered under Armstrong's powerful glower. And that was that. Roy was stuck with him, and his full brain was exhausting yet another alternative, another _would-be_ scenario, that made him shut his eyes and the rest of the world for a moment.

When he returned, two Prohis Roy didn't recognize were checking and double-checking their Colts, spinning the chamber in a smooth flicking motion, and sheathing them into their shoulder holsters. One agent procured a couple of Winchester shotguns Roy hadn't seen since the war and handed one to his smoking partner, who drew a last puff and squashed his cigarette under his boot.

Hidden behind the lush verdure and iron railings of the Bronx zoo, Armstrong clambered into her parked Ford. The foggy darkness distorted her outline and made it ten times harder to trace her movements, but she hopped out minutes later with a set of gear—a riot shield and a helmet with a visor—and began distributing it to her agents, one by one, until they were properly furnished.

They were all getting ready. It was time for him to do the same.

Maes had supplied five members of his own security team with Breda at the lead, and the redhead bodyguard had been more than eager to give the Cosa Nostra what they deserved.

In total, there were fifteen handpicked men; the best in their class. But there were also fifteen firearm wielding mafias inside the brown brick building across the five lanes. The surveillance team had predicted ten in attendance and counted fifteen instead. And with two of Armstrong's most trusted agents killed in action, one lying on her deathbed, the doctor had found himself mumbling a prayer once taught by his devout, God-fearing mother.

_You are the preserver of men, the keeper of lives_

_We commit ourselves to Your perfect care_

_Keep us safe on the journey that awaits us_

Roy's insistence had convinced Maes to stay home and watch over his grieving wife. It wasn't that difficult, really, not when all Gracia had done was drag herself from one room to another, eating but not enjoying, watching but not seeing, a scrawny, fragile thing barely holding herself up. The lone encouragement was in her paltry speech, the yes's and no's rasped airily, like a child who had screamed too much and lost her voice in the process. But she was talking again, and that was what mattered.

But his good intentions had paved ways to a bitterness he hadn't foreseen, mounting to an anger that festered all the more as facts about the Cosa Nostra were divulged and the reality of their actions sank in. Roy had been overzealous to do what was right that he had forgotten what they had done—expanding territories without regard to the lives taken, kidnapping for a few more dollars to their name, extortion, battery, assault... and the mindless murders? They made his brother out to be a saint, his business dealings a plaything. A full year of fighting in the frontline and many months spent fixing broken soldiers had kept his emotions at bay. Still, his chest echoed with a pain that wasn't so easily mended with bandages and salves.

Perhaps they had killed Trisha, too. He had thought of that possibility more often that he should.

"Chief." A light-haired detective approached Armstrong, his smooth face worry-stricken, his demeanor tense. Behind him another agent followed, his stature as big and hefty as a linebacker with features that were distinctly Native American. "Claudio and his partner can't make it, but they're lending us Agent Gardner here. He's technically not supposed to start until the morning of January 1st."

"Well, it is January 1st, and it is morning," Armstrong replied without a care. "Vouched?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good enough for me."

As soon as Roy looked away, tending to other thoughts, he heard Riza gasp beside him. She turned to him with brimming exuberance, beaming her pearly whites.

"That's William Gardner!" she squeaked.

In his haze, he hadn't listened. "Who?"

"William Gardner," she repeated. "He was, sorry—_is_—a member of The Untouchables. The Untouchables is a group of selected agents famous for being incorruptible. Thus, the name." Her declaration could hardly be suppressed beneath all the excitement. Such a foreign sight with all the doom and gloom of the last month, he thought.

"There were too many prohibition agents taking bribes. And then one day, this guy named Eliot Ness, decided that enough is enough and formed The Untouchables, bureau-sanctioned and all. Eliot Ness is sort of my hero," Riza confessed, a shy smile lifting the edges of her lips. "He refused a $2,000 weekly bribe from Al Capone. He was so incorruptible he died penniless."

Gardner, who Roy surmised had caught a drift of their conversation, took a gander at them, making Riza slap a hand over her mouth. Firmly. It was all she could do to rein in her adoration from breaking loose.

"Anyway, as I was saying," the history professor whispered now, giddy and half-giggling, sharing her fount of knowledge once again. "Gardner's one of the first few members they had. He had a bit of a football career before he joined the Bureau. You can probably guess what he is, right? His ethnicity?"

When she ended her oration and stared at him through expectant, starstruck eyes, he blanked. Completely. All Roy could think about was where Gardner had been placed on Armstrong's chessboard. Would he be replacing Fuery, granting the ambitious agent the assignment he desired? Or would he be watching over him and Riza _with_ Fuery? Would Gardner... uncover his devices?

A frown crossed Riza's face. "Roy?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you okay?"

The doctor answered right away, smiling. "Yes."

She pondered for a heartbeat, and then said conclusively, "Okay, something is wrong. What is it?"

A too-quick smile and a one-word reply would only invite suspicions from her, and Roy should have known better. If he had proclaimed himself Sherlock, then Riza was Poirot, just as proficient at extricating his truths. He removed his cap and skimmed a hand through his floppy hair before settling it back on.

"I just want tonight to end already, that's all," he said. A half-truth was still the truth.

Her mouth tightened into a stern line, and she squinted at him, squeezing for more, seeking assurance from his carapaced expression.

Chastened a little, Roy added softly, honestly, "I hate watching from the sidelines, Riza. You heard what Armstrong said: we have to stay here. How does she expect us to stand around when the men who shot at us are just across the street?" And it was the same men who had put a bullet in his brother's leg; the same men who had driven his aunt into a foxhole; and the same men who had ended his niece's life before it even began.

"I know, Roy. I know. But we _are_ helping them. Without the information we gave her, none of us would be here tonight. And sometimes that is the extent of our helpfulness. We're making a difference," she appeased, reaching for his arm and rubbing it consolingly.

The fog parted briefly, and the moon blinked and stretched above them, shining a ghostly spotlight on the building across the street. Past the palisade of the zoo, on the sixth floor windows, were silhouettes of men with fat bellies, egg-shaped heads with champagne flutes touching their mouths. Shadows had a way of obscuring things, including humankind's true nature and the perfidy of their intentions. These men seemed like another partygoer, a friend to someone, a son or a father, another soul enjoying the revelry a new year had brought.

Slipping his gloved fingers into his jacket, Roy brought out his pocket watch and studied it under the moonshine.

Thirty minutes.

And for Roy, the next thirty minutes was seen through the window of a moving train. It was too fast to catch on what was happening and provided little time for him to calculate his own moves. Armstrong had called out her men, beckoning with gathering arms. And her men had formed a circle around her, breaking into two lines at each side of the zoo entrance a fleeting moment later. When Armstrong whipped out her gun, her men emulated, crouching down to the ground and worming their way to D'Aquila's apartment like two disjointed caterpillars, side-by-side.

For a clearer view across the street, Fuery had shifted his base of operations to a ticket booth nearby the entrance. He brought his radio kit with him, a wooden box shaped like an oversized jewelry casket with a hinged lid. Then he sagged a bulky headset piece over his head, tuned out the whole of Bronx and the machinations vigorously churning in Roy's mind.

Occasionally, Fuery would mutter a comment or two, more to himself than to the doctor and the woman beside him, shaking his head in disappointment. "Nothing is going on right now… Got better things to do than this..."

It was eerily dark. The mist returned, and the moon fled once again. Leafless trees shot through a blanket of silvery wisps, skeletal branches swaying in the biting cold. It was impossible to perceive beyond forty feet, impossible to outline Armstrong and her agents geared in black from head to toe. Hell, Roy could barely outline the perimeter of the building itself; just thin aureoles of yellow from within the residence giving way their location.

But when Armstrong eventually struck, Roy sensed a faint tremor in the ground, heard the brisk paces that rustled against grass and squelched abundantly into wet soil. Footfalls split into different corners of the property, and the doctor reached for his back pocket again and felt for the weight lodged against his back pocket, safe. Secured.

He threw a last glance at Fuery. The man was small—short in height, skinny in proportion—and his flair was in his ability to tinker with wires, appliances, and machinery. Roy could tackle him to the ground or chain him to the booth if he wanted to. Or he could make a run for it while he wasn't looking.

It was now or never.

On the inward count of three, Roy made a beeline for D'Aquila's home, sprinting the yards as if the asphalt behind him had cracked, split, and sunk into the earth. He reached the other side of the curb in record time.

Behind him, he could hear Riza call his name, Fuery cursing and yelling, _"Hey! Come back! You can't leave!"_ But all he could feel was the burn in his chest and the coolness of the gun he had taken out of his back pocket, Maes' borrowed pistol that was attached to a jerry rigged sleeve at his belt.

Roy hadn't held a weapon since the end of the Great War, but the war that supposedly ended all wars was inextricably tied to the temperance movement that began many years before. Abstinence was seen as dutiful and patriotic, and during the war, everyone was eager to contribute to the effort. Now that it was said and done, they longed for a piece of what was once permissible. Look where that got them.

As he raced down the desolate path towards the back of the premises, he heard Riza call out for him again.

"_Roy!"_

With a swift turn around the bend, he ascended the portico and hurried into the lavish dwelling, hanging onto the thought that leaving her behind was for the good of them both. He couldn't have her involved in his plans.

Inside, oak panels studded the walls and pale-lit chandeliers hung overhead in equal intervals. All Roy could discern, however, was the reverberation of boots on the ceiling above. His pistol grasped securely, he oriented in one direction and then another, searching for a way up and finding them in the winder staircase situated behind an elevator nook. He walked further in, and then he heard it again. Much closer now.

"Roy Mustang!" Riza hollered somewhere behind him. She sounded so angry.

When he whirled around, he caught sight of her, dashing towards him with garish, hasty treads, her early morning runs paying off. As she approached him, her lips expelled his name like an irate parent berating his mischief, "Roy!"

Although this time her sound was smothered. Inaudible. He could solely see the moulding of her mouth.

Swiftly, his eyes shot up towards the high dome that hosted the spiraling stairs and widened at the thundering blast of a gunshot that rent the fuggy air. And then heavy stomps prompted the ceiling to rumble and groan, coughing up dust particles visible in the dim lights.

He could hardly make out his own words beneath the palpitations in his heart, but he raised a hand up and gestured for her to stay back.

"Riza, don't follow me," Roy warned, his scolding glare enduring the fear and fury clashing in her brown eyes. She only moved closer. "No! Stay where you are," he reiterated with a finality. "Fuery's coming. I see him." And Roy saw the agent run towards them, puffing white, hot vapors into the chilly air.

Riza remained where she was, but snarled with demur, "Why are you doing this?!"

Out of breath, Fuery materialized next to her and snatched her by the arm. And Roy took this chance to abscond once more, clutching his gun so tightly the blood drained from his fingertips, and climbed up all the way to the top.

There, the doctor discovered the entire floor in disarray. The door closest to the landing where he stood swung open, a tossed entryway paving routes to a chaotic interior. The handle was busted, the woods in the frame chipped and splintered. He paced several more steps, passing a second door with another exposed vestibule, a sweep of blood across the marble tiles.

A brazen clamor cleaved the muted suspense, halting him in his pursuit for Yale and D'Aquila. Armstrong was barking and roaring from a cavity at the end of the murky corridor, the pendant lamps above had been shot at, shattered into tiny, rainbow pieces along the carpeted hall. And then Roy sensed it when shock and anticipation commingled and knocked the oxygen out of his lungs.

A middle-aged, heavy-set man spilled into his path, his face wide and pudgy, though his stomach was neither paunchy nor sealed an impression of feeble health. A blob of fat dangled from his chin, concealing his sturdy neck, one side of his face pockmarked with old acne. In his attempt to escape, his unruly side-part had become drenched in perspiration. What an ugly man, and Roy recognized him as Toto D'Aquila, one-half of the crime bosses who had been hunting his family for as long as Roy could remember.

In that instance, the mafia tore a panicked gaze at the gun in his hand and immediately recognized the doctor's hostility. His enormous eyes dulled like a black moat and popped out of their sockets, bulging at the role reversal, the hunter turned prey, as his feet stayed planted in spot. Roy glowered at him, and he urgently fled into the open door to his right.

"Doctor Mustang!" Armstrong bellowed from her position ten yards in front of him. Wayward locks framed her wrathful countenance, her prim bun coming undone. "_Get the fuck out! Get out!_"

But the doctor gave chase instead, running into the room after him and weaving through smashed chairs and flung tables with bullet holes sewn into them. No blood, thank God, but it was useless to make out the space it had been before the furniture had been thrown about.

Against the pulse hammering in his neck and chest and wrists, Roy grabbed D'Aquila by his back collar as the mafia, one leg over the balustrade, tried to descend the fire escape. He pulled the gun on him, pressed the muzzle onto his sweaty temple, and chucked him back inside. The ugly man's balance was thrown off, and he fell on one knee, doddering back up like a frail old man.

Roy kept the gun pointed at him as he backed away, creating a small gap in between them. "Hands up where I can see them."

His arms raised, slowly but surely, D'Aquila quavered, "_Giuro che non sono stato io._ You have the wrong man."

"No. I don't think so," Roy asserted. He cocked the gun, though he felt no sensations in his hand. It had gone numb. The pocket-sized Colt was startlingly toy-like, unreal and ill-fitting between his fingers.

"_Francesco ha pianificato tutto. Era lui. Francesco Ioele è l'uomo che stai cercando._ You are looking for Frankie," he yammered, implicating his mate Frankie Yale, his head cowering and his shaking arms lowering as accusations rang on.

"Keep them up!" the doctor ordered. But even with his steel-like resolve, bolstered with false bravado, Roy felt his grip slipping. He wasn't made for this. There was a reason he couldn't make his stepfather—Maes's father—happy when he had rejected his trickle-down plan to take over his illegal dealings.

"Drop the weapon, Doctor Mustang!" Armstrong boomed from behind.

Roy didn't hear anyone else nor did he sense another presence beside the staunch detective. He took the shot aimed at D'Aquila's leg, meting out his punishment where Maes had taken one to his own only five months prior.

_Bang!_

It was so loud and the mafia's shriek so horrifying that Roy flinched, his eyes closed as the flare erupted from the round of his pistol. And he was reminded at once how his training officer had told him to always keep both eyes open, right on the target. Blood oozed from his shin, spurting, and D'Aquila dropped to his knees again, hissing some uncouth epithets in Italian.

"_Brutto figlio di puttana bastardo…"_

"Doctor, _I said_, drop your weapon!" Armstrong roared again, but this time Roy noted the fear in her command, throbbing like a hard smack to the jaw, even when he wasn't facing her. She knew he was being serious.

But then he heard her. "Roy," Riza said, barely a murmur, a sweet plea that constricted his core with shame and remorse; a vice that wouldn't budge.

With his pistol still trained at D'Aquila, he sidestepped to get a glimpse of her. Her arms were no longer covered in gloves, and Riza regarded him with a crestfallen gaze—sorrowful and conflicted. He only had himself to blame. But he had already come so far. There was no going back.

"_Mi arrendo. mi arrendo. Per favore..._" D'Aquila beseeched him, splaying his arms in prostration like he was worshipping the doctor. The mafia was stalling, Roy knew, but he let him. And he didn't understand why.

"He has surrendered, Doctor. If you shoot this man, you are going to prison with him," the detective threatened, her tone calm, as though she recognized that Riza's presence would set off something in him. When he made no motions, she resumed her spiel, revealing more and more, "We've got Pollacia and his men in custody; Breda's got him, Doctor. There will be a trial, and I assure you one of them will speak out against Yale and D'Aquila."

He should have listened. He should have lowered his gun. But Roy appraised the mafia, narrowing an inconsolable scowl at the man's sopping forehead to his messed up leg and back up to his spanking $40 attire spent using his tainted money.

"How do you know he won't just pay off the juries?" Roy probed.

"Because I'll be handling this case all the way through. I've got Blair on my side. They will get what they deserve."

"Blair isn't someone I would consider untouchable," Roy declared, and Armstrong tarried in silence. "This man deserves the worst of deaths."

In response, Riza strode towards him and hovered at his side, so close he could pick out the slight tremble in her shallow breaths. Her despondence bubbled up to ire, and she glared at him. "That's enough, Roy. Put it down."

And he confronted her then, feeling suddenly betrayed. "Riza, this man killed _a lot_ of people—innocent people. He as good as killed Maes and Gracia-"

"No. I won't let you do this," Riza interjected, denying his reason. Her obstinate stare was intent on him. "Think of Edward and Alphonse."

At the mention of his charges, his grip faltered, his hatred for the man before him slipping along with it. And if the firearm had felt light as a feather before, it was now heavier than a set of cast-iron dumbbells. What could he do now? It was too late. He'd been lost to the light.

"Riza. Promise me you'll take care of them," he appealed for the sake of appealing. He hardly felt the same convictions now as he did two weeks ago. He wasn't sure what he was saying anymore. He simply let his mouth lead, speaking for his broken heart.

She winced at his request, clear that it was not what she was expecting. Her lips quivered, and she glistened with the most miserable face he'd seen on her yet. He saw her blink back tears that started to collect in her big, sad eyes. What had he done?

"I- I..." she swallowed a lump, as if looking for the proper answer. "Ed and Al are mine as much as they are yours…"

"What will you do when I'm gone?" he inquired quietly.

"Please, Roy. Please don't do this..." Riza was begging now, but maintained the two-feet separation between them. Fearing for herself, he thought woefully, and fearing for him. But he would never hurt her. Not like that.

He asked her again, "What will you do, Riza?"

She sniffled, rubbing her leaky nose with the back of her hand. All he wanted to do was draw her in and meld her into his frame, soothing her, caressing her into calm, but there was the gun, the insubordination and the shot to the leg, and Olivier Armstrong witnessing every darned mistake he'd made along the way.

"I'll... I'll make sure Ed pursues his studies. He's a smart boy... He wants to be a doctor just like you, did you know? And Al... I'll make sure he has everything he needs. That- that's what he deserves at the very least," she concluded, her chin tilted towards the ground in resigned abandon.

Roy nodded, and smiled woodenly. "Good."

"And… I'll make sure," she whimpered, sobbing between words, her misty gaze swinging up into his and clinging there, "that our child knows... his father is a good man."

His dance with vengeance had come at an impasse then. His heart stopped, his mind spellbound. And in one sobering moment, Roy lowered his weapon and made an abrupt about-face, confronting her. "What did you say?"

He had seen the signs. He had felt it in his gut. He hadn't been able to dismiss the blatant changes in her appetite, the mornings and nights where she had looked sickly green. Then there was the subtle flaring of her hips, her swollen breasts, the extra layer of skin that wasn't there before… and then there was her mood, swaying like the ripples of high grass in strong wind.

"I'm eleven weeks pregnant," Riza announced, her voice feeble but her gaze held on firmly, certainly.

And everything the doctor had been carrying with him—abhorrence, condemnation, his demand for justice—was readily reduced to ash.

Approaching him, she extended her hand and placed it beneath his unsteady one. Her other cushioned the pistol, insisting on it, and there was nothing else for him to do but dropping it into her sticky palm. Without losing a beat, Armstrong snatched it from her and cuffed the injured mafia, hoisting him up roughly and leaving mercury-tang streaks of blood as she hauled him away from the scene.

Riza exhaled relief and promptly collapsed into the ground, her back bowed in a slump, dark strips beneath her far-off stare. As the last shiver left his limbs, Roy fell to the floor with her and stretched a sedated hand, cold and unfeeling, burrowing it in the wild of her long tresses.

She was warm and steady, and he was safe.

"My knees wouldn't keep me up…" she breathed, smiling ruefully.

He rested his forehead against hers and inhaled deeply, forgetting where they were for an interlude, ignoring the need to shed his clothes and wash all the dirt and grime of tonight. He ran a finger down her cheek and cradled her pretty face. "I'm sorry, Riza... I'm so sorry. I'm such a fool. Will you forgive me?"

Through her tear-stained smile, she closed her eyes and nodded. "Always." And then she opened her coat and joined his hand with hers, bringing them to the growing refuge beneath the heavy velvet. "Just a tiny bump, really. You probably thought I got fat from all of those sweets I munched on," she said, allowing a raspy chuckle to seep through.

"You'll be showing in just a few short weeks," Roy whispered, mesmerized at the even plane of her belly, still flat and smooth, belying the life within.

But as he lay his palm against it and sensed the encapsulating warmth, he discovered he was having trouble breathing again. And then he felt, in his chest, the same fire that had burned when he made the decision to sprint after the man who had hurt his family. But the flame diminished, and a new fire ignited, wrapping around his shivering body and head, nesting in the cavern behind his skull. And as he realized the sensation—joy instead of sadness, gladness instead of agony, he mimicked Riza in her vulnerability and let himself loose, crying like he never cried before.

* * *

A stubborn anxiety followed Riza on their car ride home. It was relief from finally telling Roy her biggest kept secret, she figured, tempered with a dawdling apprehension from the stunt he had just pulled. A deep-rooted fear that something would go very wrong tonight was slow to dissolve, but at least she had him here with her and she was going to make sure he was sitting still and pretty until their baby was born.

Shoulder to shoulder, she sensed the slack in his body. He was calm and relaxed now. But she held onto his hand in her lap anyway, their fingers intertwined, if only because it made her feel better.

The doctor glanced at her, and with reluctance, he started to say, "So… you said _his_ father. How do you know we will have a son?"

"There's no way to know for sure. Not _here_ anyway," she punctuated the era they were in. It was true; research on a baby's gender wasn't invented until the 1970's, much to her disappointment. "But for some reason, all these boy names keep coming up in my head. Like a premonition. It's so odd..."

At this, Roy turned his whole body to her and smiled. "Such as?"

"Well, there's Thomas after your dad. He was haunting me for a good two weeks," she chuckled. "And then I thought maybe George, after my grandfather, but Georgie is technically here and I see how that can be confusing. And then there's Eliot Ness, because he's my hero."

Laughing, Roy replied with a jest, "Who's the nerd now? Though Eliot is a nice name. It's different; it's not a name of anyone we know."

She squeezed his hand. "Isn't it? But I want us to decide together when the time comes. I mean, the baby could still be a girl. In which case, we'll need to come up with some girl names."

Roy brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it, then it was silent again for a long while. The road was wet and black and the streets empty, but in the distance Manhattan glowed in the halo of a new year, sparkling bright with golden lights that emboldened the sketch of the Empire City. What a year it had been—the strangest, saddest, and happiest year of her life.

"Hey, you know when I asked you before? If you could be pregnant?" the doctor asked softly. "Why didn't you tell me the truth?"

In her own defense, Roy had never asked her at a proper time, but she knew hers was merely an excuse to get what she wanted. And what she wanted was to go around New York, hunting criminals and giving them the chase of their life, ending the misery cursed upon the Hughes-Mustang family, if only for a short few years.

"I said I was packing on a few pounds. That's_ a _truth," she argued.

"You said it yourself. That's_ a _truth, not_ the _truth."

Shame made her pause. In the dark, she could almost paint the indignation around his mouth. "Well, at first I wasn't sure I was pregnant. And then when I became sure, I didn't want to bring it up because of what happened to Gracia. After that, well... I was too afraid you wouldn't let me come tonight."

"So you thought I wouldn't have let you come if I had known?"

She nibbled on her lip. "Yes."

He chortled mildly. "Well, you're probably right about that. But I am trying my best to find a happy medium so that-" he wiggled his index finger between them, "this—_us_—could work. The last thing I want to do is push you away, Riza."

"I felt terrible keeping this to myself. Please believe me," she appealed, her mouth downturned, her gaze apologetic. "And lying to you is the last thing I ever want to do. I won't do it again."

But then he laughed, an impressionable laugh that made her question if she was seeing right. And then he bobbed his head in displeasure, sighing wistfully, "My parents would be very disappointed in me if they were alive."

Her face scrunched up. "Why?"

"Chris may defy rectitude, but my father—her brother—was the picture of it. So was my mother. They would be completely appalled that I got a girl pregnant out of wedlock."

"Does that... bother you?" she asked, hesitant, feeling her nails curling into her skin.

"You wouldn't be able to find a job unless you are a respectable lady, if you take my meaning. Where we live, as it is, is not very welcoming to those who fall outside the lines of conformity," he said somberly. "Do you understand, Riza?"

He wasn't being patronizing; he was worried. "I work for Maes," she mollified. "Maes will understand."

"And what if Maes can no longer employ you?" he pressed on. "He _has_ been working with the Bureau. After everything that's happened, you don't think they'd be asking him to rejoin?"

"It never crossed my mind, no." She shook her head, disagreeing. "As far as I know, he's always been Maes Hughes the Irish crime boss. But I don't know everything. I don't know a lot of things, in fact. Papers and photographs can only tell you so much."

"I want you to live your life to the fullest. So yes, it does bother me," Roy said irrevocably.

It wasn't that she never thought about it before. It was just brazen and unladylike, and she felt it discourteous to a gentleman like Roy Mustang. But when had Riza Hawkeye ever been a lady? Her hobbies included playing with guns and wearing lounge pants with her feet propped up on the coffee table, relishing in the actions and suspense of a good crime novel.

She let go of his clutch and cleared her throat, buying time because she couldn't get the jitters out of her hands, because it was all she could do in this instance. "Okay, this is _definitely _outside of conformity," she began with a gusty sigh, "but how would you feel if…"

When he stared at her, so engrossed and intense, everything suddenly became so intimidating. She had to look away, just briefly, to make space for clarity and air, to make her spinning head right again.

"You were saying?" Roy nudged, gently.

She grabbed his rough, cold hands and embraced them against her thumping heart. And then she mustered courage—all of it, determination against the dread of a proposal, and hoped for the best. "I love you, Roy Mustang, but I don't have a ring. Will you have me anyway?"

His eyes grew large, seeming utterly shocked, and he blurted, "Did you just propose to me?"

"Um, yes."

The doctor's expression morphed into a study of malcontent, and he moaned with confounded irritation. "No, no, no. This isn't how it's supposed to go."

Her face flashed with pain, and before she knew, she was holding onto the door handle of the vehicle, grappling for her life, waiting for the hurt of rejection to dissipate.

But Roy was quick to rectify, "Oh no, that's not what I mean… It didn't come out right. I mean, I've always envisioned the proposal to be more romantic than this-" He gestured around the car and then peered down at her.

Emotions rose to her lips, trembling them, and she let them pull her under as tears began to gather in her eyes again. Damn her hormones, and damn herself for not being able to control it.

"Wait. Wait a second… Jesus Christ…" Flustered, Roy delved into the layers of his jacket and scrambled around for something, speaking as he searched, "Please don't cry, Riza. I've made you do enough of that already… Oh, Jesus..." And then he dug it out, and presented it to her.

The box opened to a round sapphire that stole a glimmer from the passing streetlights. It was huge and elegant and beautiful, and the obscuring night had not dampened even an ounce of its magnificence. But Riza wasn't looking at the ring anymore. She was looking at him, stunned, disbelieving. Was this moment even real?

"I've been wanting to ask you, but the timing hasn't been perfect. I suppose that makes two of us, huh?" he said faintly, the corner of his lips tipping in self-deprecation.

"There's this Irish saying, _'An luífeása le mo mhuintirse?'_" Roy continued in a steadier voice, sprouting the words he seemed to have practiced. "It means, 'Would you like to be buried with my people?' And I would like _you_ to be buried with my people-" When she narrowed at him, he paused midway, gaped, and grabbed at his unruly pelt. "Oh feck, I am completely messing this up, aren't I? Believe me, it makes so much more sense when delivered in Irish. But then you wouldn't understand any of it..."

She couldn't help but laugh at his endearing attempt, and then Roy braced himself with a long inhale and then started again. His nearness was mere centimeters that she could taste his hot breath on her tongue, his own inarticulate mouth easing the drought in her throat, and his sincere, lovely smile telling her he was exactly where he wanted to be.

"Yes, laugh at me all you want. At least I_ am_ making you laugh," Roy joked, snorting. And then he was solemn once more, clamping onto the ring box until his knuckles turned white. "What I am trying to say is, you're the sun in my universe, Riza Hawkeye. I love you, _a chuisle, a chroi_. And you would make me a very, _very_ happy man if you say yes."

Damn herself for believing she wasn't going to cry again. Tears that had accumulated waterfalled down her cheeks. And for fear of an ugly cry, she muffled her face with her hands, sobbing into them like she had just marathoned the top 100 angstiest movies of all time. But she hadn't watched any movies since _The Phantom of the Opera_, and this was not angsty as it was romantic, ardently so, and much more memorable than any tender scenes she could recall at the top of her head.

"I wasn't laughing at you, you silly man. I was _moved_, touched that you-" she stumbled as rivulets dripped down into her mouth, "that you got this beautiful, _beautiful_ ring and prepared a speech and… I hadn't expected any of this."

"Ah, well, I had planned to take you on a ferry ride to Staten Island and then get down on my knee and propose while we cross the Upper Bay. Looks like we have to settle for this instead," he admitted diffidently.

"No, this is better. I'll remember this. And to your question, yes," she finished with a broad smile above the elation beating beneath her skin, sniveling and wiping at her cheeks.

A smirk nudged his lips up, crinkling his eyes. "Yes?" he repeated.

"Yes."

"Yes, yes?"

"Yes, yes!" she screamed her answer, laughing.

In that moment Roy emitted a great, screeching laugh, so high-pitched that she grimaced and covered her ears for protection. And then he beamed down on her and slipped the gold ring into her finger, giving her not a moment to admire and marvel as he bent down and reached her supple lips, kissing her fully on the mouth.

When her arms wrapped around his shoulders, he lifted her, as much as the leeway of the car would allow, setting her across his lap and making her feel like she hadn't weighed the extra ten pounds she had gained in the last three months. Roy dove in again, assailing her cheeks and neck and mouth with kisses that were neither tentative nor fleeting; they were playful and demanding, like the man himself, sealed with the promises of _I do_ and forevermore.

And when Riza angled in for more, she heard a noisy harrumph coming from behind her.

"Um, sorry to interrupt, but we're here," Kain murmured from the front seat, scratching his temple. "And uh, I just wanted to say congratulations, Doc, Riza, on the, um, engagement and the baby…" Under the flicker of the porchlight, the agent's cheekbone was tinted a darker hue.

Embarrassment, Riza surmised, and she was embarrassed for her letting herself go like that in front of the callow, conventional man. Promptly, she moved down from Roy's lap and afforded him the space to exit the vehicle.

"Sorry about that, Kain," Riza simpered, sheepish, giving his shoulder a grateful squeeze. "Thank you for the ride."

"Yeah, thanks, Fuery," the doctor chimed in, alighting the car to stand at the base of his portico.

With a massive grin, Roy proffered his hand to her. She took it, climbing out of the car with legs that felt like jello and a stomach that had finally stopped swirling. All she could feel against his palm was the new weight on her finger, the coolness of the band, a pleasant constriction that demanded her to think about nothing else but the future and the things that lay ahead. And Riza told herself as she entered their home, _The future is bright_.

* * *

A/N: Oh boy, I am excited for the next chapter.


	21. From This Moment in Time

A/N: I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

**Chapter 21: From This Moment in Time**

Riza watched herself in the vanity mirror, swallowed in stunned amazement, as Gracia silently stepped behind her and fitted her coiffed tresses with a satin headband, completing her transformation. It was ivory in shade, the length encrusted with teardrop crystals, and under the occasional sunlight of the uncurtained windows, it was scintillating like her own miniature crown. It made her feel like a queen of a magnificent castle.

Gracia tilted Riza's chin, angling her body so she was captured in full by the length of her reflection, her smiling head beside hers.

"You make a beautiful bride," Gracia opined.

Both hands on her lap, Riza murmured demurely, "Thank you."

And for a short while, she believed it.

The scoop neck, sheath dress Riza chose was simple. There were no sewn-on diamonds, no dramatic appliqués. Instead, it was a web of criss-crossing lines that became the fabric, filling up the canvas of plain-white crepe and accentuating her burgeoning stomach without shame or remorse.

Her pregnancy had allowed some freedom she wouldn't have otherwise had. The train that had streamed ten feet behind her had been trimmed into two; the embroidered pearls encircling the waistline that would have constricted her breathing had been removed; and a high slit on her thigh, which Roy thought was of utmost distraction, had been granted for ease of walking. She would not have her dress impede her ability to run around if she needed to. Not that the ever-so-careful doctor would have approved such imprudence.

But even on her wedding day, Riza was determined to embody her grandfather's last words, a devoted granddaughter, come what may. It was the least she could do for the man who had given his world to a lonely, little bird.

"Are you ready?"

Riza glanced into the mirror and then reluctantly at the mobster's wife. Her toes coiled within her slippers. The corners of Gracia's mouth downturned, and she planted a hand on the bride's shivering shoulder.

"Cold feet?"

"A little bit," Riza admitted, ashamed of herself.

At this, Gracia dragged a twin ottoman matching the one she was sitting on, setting it next to hers, and lowered herself into the upholstery. A bank of wisdom spilled out beneath a slit of sleepless gaze. "I thought I was making a huge mistake the day before I married Maes," she said with a crooked smile. "Want to hear the story?"

With one finger tracing the labyrinth of lines on her dress, Riza evaded her vehemence and nodded.

"He's an ambitious man, as you know, and around the time of our wedding, he had become this... _rising star_ at the Bureau," Gracia narrated, shaking her head with the memory. "For several months I watched him leave at dawn and come home very late at night. He'd kissed me good morning and good night, but he barely said a word to me. He was different. He _felt_ different. All he wanted to do, it seemed, was climb the political ladder. And I thought, wow, I am stuck with someone who's obsessed with his work. So then I told him it wasn't going to work out between us."

Her eyes widened. "You did?"

"Yes."

"And what did he say?"

"Well, he had tears in his eyes. And then he said, I'd told him when we first met I'd marry a man who was passionate about his work." With a quiet laugh Gracia rolled her eyes, her neck lolling in mock resignation. "Talk about taking it literally."

Riza couldn't help herself and chuckled with her. "What happened then?"

"Maes said he was only doing it to please _me_, because that's all he wishes to do for the rest of his life."

"Huh. Talk about turning all that on you," Riza remarked, grinning.

"Yes. And I fell even deeper in love with him after that," she smiled, a curl of sincerity. Her cold hand found Riza's, and she patted it gently. "I know Roy will do the same for you. He loves you very much."

What Gracia said inspired an ancient memory, swelling like mist on a frosty dawn, clearing with the rising heat of the day. It was a trifling vignette long forgotten, cast away from her mind-crevasses in the wake of her mother's too recent death.

"No one cares about me," Riza had grumbled finally, liberating two months of pent up acrimony. Silence hadn't dwelled on her as well as she thought it would. It was the longest she had ever gone with her own musings.

In the weatherworn wingback, her grandfather had lowered his book, perusing her through the bifocals roosting on his avian nose. A crackling fire was leaping in the hearth, dancing across his sun-aged face. "I care about you," he said.

"You only visited us ten times in the last sixteen years." It had been an unfair pronouncement, and Riza knew it. Contention had been in the center of George Grumman and her father's relationship, and a winding stretch of mountainous terrain and boundless wilderness had not made it cheap and convenient for them to see each other more often than they had wanted to.

"Yes, an unfortunate thing." He had conceded, bobbing his head in regret. He put his reading aside and joined his hands together, elbows easing into the armrest. "But it doesn't mean I don't care about you."

For Riza, her father had taught her the bitter lesson of love in a moment of grief. But her grandfather had never failed to remind her that it was there, palpable and undeniable, and that she should not be afraid. In her teenage melodramatics, she hadn't listened.

"Time heals all things," he had added.

"I'd rather be alone so I don't have to worry about any of it. No one else loves me but you."

His dull-grey eyes had fostered a lambent shine then, a mellow vision that had seen life's worst and greatest aspects and witnessed what Riza herself could only glean from his antiquated anecdotes.

"Love and time are a lot alike, Little Riza. It is capricious, offering the illusion of too-fast and turbulent one moment, calm and too-slow the next. It's unseen and unseeable, yet no one ever questioned that it is there," he had imparted. Then he peered into the roaring flame, fluttering a forlorn smile in the reverie. "He loves you very much."

At the callow age of sixteen, she had outwardly refuted George Grumman's claim about the father who had chosen to abandon her. At the present age of thirty, she finally understood what he had meant.

But stories surrounding the doctor were as elusive as the fly that soared from one temporary post to the next, steadfastly fleeing the haphazard swing of a swatter. If her grandfather had known of their future—their marriage, their child together—why hadn't he said it so? Was the thrill of anticipation better than not knowing what was to be?

With her still thrumming body, Riza cocooned their hands together, thankful for Gracia's tale, and gave them a placating squeeze. "Thank you, Gracia. You've been so good to me. You and Maes both. I don't know what I can do to repay you."

"Make that stubborn man happy. He's been alone for far too long. Though I should say it was self-inflicted more than anything," Gracia laughed lightly. "It would be quite entertaining to see Roy with a child."

Reticence circled the air, swirling down, and tightened like a tendril around her chest. Children was not a topic she would breach with Gracia Hughes. Her presence alone raised a bulwark, frail as it might be; it was the one time Riza wished she hadn't had her big belly to show and the glow of pregnancy to remind the woman of the life lost. In the discomfort, she nipped her inner cheek, but Gracia recognized the cheerless tilt of her mouth and dismissed her preoccupation.

"Oh, don't worry about me, Riza. I'm fine," she said.

Her gaze longed to dip towards the ground, but Riza held it up as she grew weary, fatigued of keeping up the wall between them. "It's just... I haven't seen much of you since Roy and I shared the news. I thought it might be because of me."

Gracia gave a little sigh and tucked into herself for a short moment. Her reaction betrayed nothing else. No indignation, no anger. No sadness.

"I was uncomfortable at first," she confessed, hesitantly. "Everytime I see you I would be reminded of what Maes and I could've had…. But between tidying up Chris's affairs, planning Maria's welcome home, and overseeing your wedding preparations, they've helped. Keeping busy _helps_," Gracia stressed.

"I see."

Gracia's hand sought hers again, a hopeful, little smile hanging onto her glossy lips. "Maes and I are still young. There will be plenty of opportunity for us to try again." And then she let go, fingers flexed into the seams of her cushioned seat. "It's your big day, Riza. Don't think about anything else other than walking down that aisle."

"Right." Riza nodded, wanting to believe her, steering away from her own melancholic introspections.

"And speaking of walking down the aisle," Gracia said, her speech slowing. "I am baffled that you chose our solarium to host your reception. I still don't understand why."

And Riza simpered, recalling her conversation with her soon-to-be husband about excess and compromise. "A garden wedding sounded nice, but it would be too cold in the middle of March. The solarium lets you see outside and is nicely heated. The best of both worlds."

"The Terrace Room at The Plaza is as good as being in a garden. It's a beautiful place. Elegant. And you can think about it as your reward for agreeing to go through with a Catholic ceremony," Gracia twitted.

Riza chuckled. "It's not _that_ bad."

Gracia straightened herself and stared at the bride, looking at her like she'd gone insane. "Oh, it is _that_ bad. All of those extra paperworks you had to sign? And the week-long classes?"

"The Plaza is nice, but Roy and I agreed it's too expensive. Besides, your solarium is just as beautiful and can fit everyone."

"Roy may live in a cozy, little townhouse, but his parents were wealthy and his job earns him more than enough money for the both of you. I know he's willing to spend the money if you'd let him."

Riza offered her a weak smile, but just as suddenly Gracia turned solemn, swaying a curious glance at the bride before her. There was something in the evergreen of the woman's eyes, a sharpness that made the downy hairs on Riza's arms rise. Gracia gazed out the arched window and plunged herself into the spell of the morningtide, but when she returned to face her, there was a knowledge that hadn't been there before.

"Maes asked me a long time ago to trust you. And I do. You've done nothing but helped us, and now you're going to be part of our family," Gracia said earnestly. "But I know there's more to you than meets the eye. You're…" she eyed her, forming her words carefully, "_different_."

Beneath her pounding pulse, Riza slid a sheltering arm around her stomach, as if protecting her baby would mean protecting herself, too. "Gracia, I..."

But she brought her hand up and stopped her before she could speak further. "You don't have to tell me, Riza. Everyone's got their own secrets. But I want to make sure that Roy knows, and that whatever it is won't bring harm to our family."

"Roy knows," she said, affirming. "And _it_ won't bring harm to your family. I'll make sure of that."

Gracia smiled and patted her hand once more. "Then that settles it."

Mrs. Hughes' door creaked open and Georgie, dressed in his mini, black-and-white tuxedo, poked in his impish grin. His round glasses drifted down his slim nose, reflecting his warbling excitement, and his feathery blond hair was slick with pomade in a style that reminded Riza of the captivating Rudolph Valentino. The ring bearer was ready to carry out his duty.

Alphonse swung the door a touch wider and gave Georgie a gentle nudge, directing the boy inward. In his grasp was a single stem of Casablanca lily, its pure white petals unfurled, dotted with the speckles of its own orange pollen. Her favorite flower.

"Come to do a little spying for the groom, have you?" Gracia teased and made a motion with her finger, beckoning them inside. Soon, she rose to her feet and smoothed the lapels of the boys' jackets before turning to Riza. "I'm going to check on Maes. Make sure he'll be ready in time." She lifted a finger in reminder, wagging it left and right. "Remember it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony."

Once Gracia left, Alphonse furnished a bashful grin and gave her the blossom, elucidating that it was from Edward who was sorry he couldn't see her until the ceremony. Touched, her expression mimicked the gift in her hand and bloomed into an unfettered smile.

Soon, Georgie sauntered over and roamed a scrutiny of the granddaughter he had no knowledge of, top to bottom, side to side, his consideration making a soft hum in his throat. The sensation was a strange bliss—her grandfather having seen her in her white finery, not knowing the implication of the union that would make him a part of the Hughes-Mustang family as well.

"You look very pretty, Riza," Georgie remarked.

Beside him, Alphonse nodded, repeating after him. "Yes, you look very pretty."

In jubilation, Riza took the boys' hands and pulled them to sit beside her, Alphonse on the seat Gracia had vacated and Georgie on her lap. "You're too kind. Both of you."

Swiveling to face her, Georgie pointed at her stomach with the roundest of eyes, bearing the innocence of a child. "But that dress is tight. Makes you look fatter than usual."

With the narrowest of gaze, Alphonse flashed his disapproval, shushing him. "Hush, Georgie. She's not fat. She's having a baby."

"I _know_ Riza is having a baby," Georgie protested. "But _mutti_ said the baby usually comes after the wedding, not before."

Riza could only laugh. There was no point in defending her circumstance from a great-grandmother who was conformed to put rectitude above all else. But Alphonse was justly mortified on her behalf, drawing down on the endearing little boy with a most formidable scowl enough to scold them both.

"Well, Georgie, would it make you feel better if I tell you the baby will come out _after_ the wedding?" Riza asked, entertaining his rumination.

Her grandfather shrugged. "I guess so." But his doe eyes were arrested still at her belly, gaping at it as though it was a hulking sea monster from one of his artfully concocted stories. It wasn't his mother's comment that made him wonder. It was her and her flourishing size, Riza decided. It struck her then that, at that age, Georgie must not have come across many pregnant women who were in close enough proximity to tell him why and how they had come about.

"Do you want to touch?" Riza asked the boy. When he mutely nodded, she brought his tiny hand and gently spread it over her stomach. "I don't think I've felt the baby kick yet, but it's there," she obliged.

A big smile reached him ear to ear, and he fluttered his astonishment, slowly, cautiously. And then his mouth tipped into a grin at the sudden sensation that, in that same moment, awakened her with euphoria.

"Did you feel that?" Riza gasped, echoing Georgie in his awe.

"The baby kicked!" he exclaimed.

"Do you think it's a boy or a girl?" Alphonse asked, his breathy voice sounding as though it shared the same daze.

Her palm cradled the soft swell, caressing in a sinuous motion, wishing it would kick again. "I think it's a boy, but Doc thinks it's a girl."

"It's a boy," Georgie declared, flushing from his own conviction. "He kicked so hard!"

"Right?" Riza remarked. "It's motherly instinct. It's rarely wrong."

Snorting, Georgie pointed at the blond boy flanking her. "You're going to have another brother, Al."

Alphonse bulged his chest out, pride oozing from his pores. "That's right." And then he turned to the soon-to-be mother, a promise in his beam, wheedling a smile out of her, too. "I'll help you take good care of him, Riza."

"I want to meet him," Georgie whispered dreamily.

"In time, darling," Riza replied, reaching around the skinny bones of his shoulder, and brushed her lips against the crest of his head. And then she drew Alphonse against her shoulder, grateful, joyfully adrift in the generosity of his offer, and planted a kiss on his downy hair, too. "And you are too sweet, Alphonse."

"Oh, Doc asked to see you, Riza. He said he'll be waiting in the library," Alphonse said without preamble, looking up at her.

Georgie nearly toppled over as he jumped to his feet. "Mrs. Hughes just said it's bad luck for Riza to see Doc right now!"

Alphonse dismissed him with a wave. "That's just an old wives' tale, Georgie."

Standing up was becoming a struggle week after week, and the leg cramps that visited at night decided they were as stubborn as she was and tore through a trellis of cold muscles as she pushed herself up. "I'm going to see Doc," Riza announced decisively. "I think he just wants to check in on me, make sure I'm okay."

"But Mrs. Hughes said-"

"Five minutes," she interrupted his childish objection. "You can come with me if you want. Keep track of time?"

His grievance pervaded under her persisting stare, his petite mouth in a sulk. Georgie was clearly peeved, but the taut outline of his shoulders waned and abated as Riza rolled on a sticky, saccharine smile, working as intended as it always had in the past.

"Fine," Georgie sighed, powerless against her steel will. "But I have a baaaaaaad feeling about this," he finished in a sing-song.

* * *

It was as if Riza had drifted in time to the first moment they met. Falling in love with a man she had only heard through stories was as absurd as journeying back through time. But the weight in her stomach did not lie, the sensation of winter's end crisp in the thin air, and the broad back of the man she loved stood as sturdy as the big, flowering oak tree beyond the arched window.

Inside the library, its walls stacked with books that jutted into the ceiling, the doctor watched through the sole paneled glass, his posture regal and dignified. He turned to her when the susurration of her heels dragged through the polished wood, the dull rays of daybreak creating a burnished glow across his face, endearing him with a softness that curved the seam of her lips.

"There you are," Roy said in greeting, the black bowtie around his neck as lopsided as his smile. He was dressed in his wedding tux, dark grey with ebony lapels, looking every bit charming and impressive.

"Here I am," Riza answered breathlessly, dropping her bunched skirts to the floor, all at once conscious of the thick makeup and ornate embellishments that clung to her skin.

Roy said nothing but grinned—a grin more mischievous than the twinkle in his eyes—and then he bowed down deeply with one arm folded against his chest and the other behind his back. "My Queen," he stated graciously, and when he rose from his deference and found her again, he took her hand and led her to a chair that sat behind a writing desk.

Promptly, Riza was reminded of his boyhood aspiration and began to laugh out loud. As a child, Roy must have made plenty of obeisance to prepare for his pretend kingship and make-believe kingdom. Though she did not know of any kings who bowed to their consorts. She corrected her back against the chair, if only to prevent the shards of glass in her hip from clawing up her spine, and bent forward to comb delicate fingers through the wayward bangs that had fallen over his eyes.

"You look beautiful," Roy whispered reverently, staring, admiring, ignoring her remedy of his hair. He leaned over her and touched light lips across rouged cheek, his warm skin kind against hers. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Eww," came Georgie's belated groan, and Riza paused with a half-open mouth.

She had forgotten the little warden had followed along.

"Come here, Georgie," Riza chuckled, waving at him. Once the boy was at her side, she smiled up at her fiancé and announced the glad tidings. "The baby kicked, Roy. Georgie and I felt it."

"I did! I felt the baby!" Georgie exclaimed, his fists parading his eagerness to share the news.

"Did you, wee Georgie?" Roy's tone was limned with surprise.

"He kicked so hard, Doc!"

In brimming incredulity, the doctor's dark eyes broadened with wonders, his mouth wide with pride. He shot his arms up into the sky and cheered. In response, Georgie did the same, adding and making a ruckus with his chime of laughter and banshee scream. Once Roy had come down from his glee, he knelt before her, laying affection on her round belly and stooped down to kiss it. And then he looked up at her, a scintilla of exultation.

"You convinced Georgie it's a boy," Roy commented, chuckling.

"I didn't do _any_ of that. He convinced himself," Riza asserted in good humor, tossing her unbidden smile as her gaze strayed to the striking spectacle outside the window.

And Riza remained distracted as she watched the scene gradually unfurl.

Rebecca meandered down the sandstone path that wormed its way into the solarium, her lilac bridesmaid gown streaming behind her underneath a heavy coat. Maes walked not far behind her, his chin slanting towards the congregating clouds as she twirled a finger high up in the air. In the same second, the mobster halted in place and planted his hands on his hips, drawing his features into a frown.

They weren't arguing—or at least, it didn't seem like they were—but they also weren't in congenial company. Of that, she was certain.

Riza pointed outside. "Roy," she apprised.

The doctor trailed after her observation, squinting. "What are they doing?"

"They're fighting," Georgie noted smoothly, the simplicity of his words overlooking the gravity of what it was.

But her grandfather was right. Now, they looked like they were arguing. There was no mistaking the ire bracketing Maes' firm mouth, his knitted brows and dagger eyes. And Riza flattened her own mouth as she followed the mobster and her friend in their slog, moving and then stopping, bickering faces once and again. The temperature outdoors was disagreeable, and there was no reason for them to be there. The reception wouldn't start for another seven hours. Why couldn't they talk inside?

Trepidation frayed her steady bearing, and with every fierce step Maes and Rebecca took, Riza was finding it impossible to cease the onslaught of fear piercing into her chest. She debated how to tell Roy, who was staring at her intently, but it wasn't something she could easily explain. It was an intuition, a feeling, and a _bad_ one at that. But he saw everything and missed nothing.

Gently, he hooked a thumb under her chin, stroking, soothing. "I'll see what's going on," he murmured, placing a hand on his knee and pushing himself up.

Roy left and, to her watchful grandfather, Riza pleaded as she clutched his small hands, "Georgie, could you please find Mr. Breda and let him know Mr. Hughes is outside?" Informing the head of security that Maes was in trouble would be overmuch, but letting him know he was outside would alert him just the same, without the preconception.

"On it, ma'am!"

She stood and started pacing. Her swollen middle begged her to stay where she was, tucked safely inside the warm solace of the library, but her mind warred with the need to ensure all was safe and well. Vanessa hadn't had much luck with the locket in which she was sure had been Rebecca's, and Riza, with the ever-evolving chain of events, hadn't pressed for urgency.

At last, Riza decided that a little wintry gale would do no harm to her pregnancy and that ensuring Maes' safety was first and foremost. And so she exited the library, listening to her heart rather than her mind, and ventured into the bleak weather that threatened rain, searching for reassurance.

Under the shadows of a towering, bird-shaped topiary, she discovered Roy. The doctor didn't engage Maes and Rebecca in their skirmishes but waited, observing with a twenty-thirty feet gulf that allowed him a modicum of privacy and a full frame of the goings-on before him. Curious and a bit more than frightened of what she would find, she removed her heels and tiptoed, barefeet, along the bedewed grass to crouch beside him.

His disapproving eyes berated her at once, but Riza lifted a calming hand and smoothed his tensed shoulder. Soundlessly, waveringly, Roy turned back to the charade of frantic hands and grim countenances. Right away Riza readily comprehended as to why he had decided to hang back and watch instead of interfere.

"_-and I know Chris is alive, Mr. Hughes. Please, I need to know where she is!"_ The desperation in her voice clanged like a gong, loud and clear.

"_Stop changing the fucking subject!"_

"_If… if I don't find out where she is, they might just-"_ Her sentence ended as abruptly as the insistence in her flailing arms, her alluring eyes directed anywhere else but at the mobster who glowered down at her.

Swiftly, Maes was grabbing her bicep, vicious and vehement, draining the color from her glowing skin. Her eyes went wide, and her mouth opened in surprise. _"I'm done playing games. You will tell me who it is,"_ he hissed, threatening.

"_I… I'm-"_

"_You dragged me out here when_ I _should be getting ready for my brother's wedding. You have information that_ I _want. Now, you_ will _tell me who it is,"_ he reiterated, demanding with a savage hand at her unbound forearm. When Rebecca let out a squeak instead of an answer, Maes roared, _"Who's the mole?!"_

In that instance, the shadow of a man streaked the pristine lawn, elongating with his calculated movement under the rising sun. Frankie Yale had grown stout since his 1912 mugshot, but the face of a notorious crime boss as powerful as Al Capone would eventually become was not one Riza could forget.

His stony, malevolent smile hung in the air long after the mafia made himself known. And with his murderous gaze, Frankie Yale reached into the covers of his jacket and floated a gun at the Irish mobster.

There were no words exchanged, no greetings or acknowledgment. Frankie fired his weapon with a well established intention. He knew who he was after, and he was taking his opportunity, at long last.

The sandstones were like sleets of ice, and they stung Riza's naked soles and bound her to the ground for a slow, untenable second. Maes was caught off guard, completely, and his slack jaw and terrified eyes burned holes in her roaring chest. The mobster did not make an effort to run, brooking in idle shock, but Roy was already there and hastily tackled his brother to the squelching earth.

When the shot rang out, Riza heard both men grunt. Roy had rolled himself on top of Maes, who was clutching the spot where his black jacket had torn, but both seemed otherwise unharmed. Rebecca was shrieking and screaming, dangling around Frankie's thick torso as the mafia crawled for his hurled firearm beneath the gloom of the oak tree.

It was a disaster impossible to follow, but as Riza retrieved her jog and chased after the weapon thrown across the lawn, a voice from her right, ominous and familiar, took her by surprise.

"Hello again, _signorina_," Albert Anselmi said with a wicked grin, his gun aimed at her.

The Sicilian pulled the trigger, and instantly the world spiraled and Riza was suddenly facing the dimming skies, hot fluid spreading across her chest. It felt like slime against her perspired palm.

A shout pulsated in her ears; her name repeated like an incantation, over and over again until it pounded her head and hissed against her temple. With fluttering lids, Riza angled her head just enough and saw Breda hovering over Anselmi beside her downed body. Or was it Anselmi over Breda's, she wondered? Dust and dirt kicked off the land in the scuffle, obscuring her view, but everything had become so slow-moving and ill-defined that she could hardly tell who was who; who was winning and who was losing.

Out of the blue, Rebecca was above her, raining tears that dripped down and slid down Riza's cheeks. Her violet eyes looked the drabbest of brown against the backdrop of grey clouds and a hiding sun.

"I- I'm sorry, Riza... I didn't have a choice! Th-they took my baby... They took Adrian!" her friend blubbered, sobbing into her shoulder. Her voice was wavering, fleeting, until it sounded like the whispers of rocking trees and rose bushes, merging with the wind.

And then Rebecca vanished and Roy was there, his strong voice everywhere. Behind her, beside her, and over her. His face and body loomed over hers, a protective dome of shiny satin and fine features that looked frightened and fearful.

"_Riza- Riza!"_

But his roar sounded distant, though she could still make him out. Deep lines entrenched his forehead and ran down to the slant of his nose. There were clumps of dirt on his sloping brows. His dark eyes matched the shade of the clouds that scuttled overhead. It was going to rain, she thought. How unfortunate.

A weighty sensation claimed one side of her body, and it felt as though she was being flattened by a hydraulic press, her back scraping and scratching against the thorny gravels beneath with every compression.

Roy spoke again, a gurgle, every syllable sounding like an effort underneath the urgency of his tone. _"I can't- It won't stop. It's not clean…"_

It felt as though hours had come and gone. For a time, the pull at her oblique returned her to the present, if only temporarily. "It hurts..." Riza rasped honestly, voicing the sensation. A swarm of bees was at her side, pricking her skin without a flash of reprieve.

"_Oh, dear God! I don't know how to save you-_"

And then time stretched again, like the pasta dough she and Alphonse kneaded and rolled in the heat of Roy's kitchen. The minutes quieted the ache, the memory lulling it. And then she heard Georgie's muffled cries. Her sweet, youthful grandfather. He wasn't telling his stories, but he perched beside her, weeping like a missing child, his small hand clasping her own; it provided respite, as diminutive as it was.

"_You're hurt, Riza,"_ Georgie croaked wispily._ "I think the big man shot you... here…"_ His short fingers grazed the beginnings of her belly, just under her breasts.

Was that what happened?

What her grandfather had admitted merely brought back a grievous lament. Gracia and her stillborn baby were never far from her thoughts. A silent prayer was enough to calm hearts, as some had said, and it was the only time Riza had prayed, for Gracia, for others who suffered the same, even if she hadn't known who was listening. It was a pain devastating enough to separate husbands and wives, turn mothers into something else—revenants, ghosts of who they were.

It was a pain Riza never knew existed, and one she never wanted to feel.

"The baby…" Riza hissed, a knife slicing her skin again. Her hands climbed the hill of her stomach, sensing for life, praying for its safety. "Roy, the baby…?"

"_I'm sorry, Riza-" _was his faraway reply. _"But you will be alright. Our baby will be alright…"_ The doctor was lifting her hand, and he was above her again, kissing each delicate bone of her fingers, his wet lips lingering there, as though it would be the last time he could. She caught a glint of something shiny then, sparkling against the harsh beam that parted the gathering clouds.

With the sun pressing on and dividing the heavens, everything became clear once more. Riza saw Roy crying, his sorrow pealing, the whites of his eyes red and swollen. Georgie's head was next to his, his small mouth in a grimace as he moaned and howled. When Roy proclaimed his affection for her, solid and true, it was with a finality that quaked her heart. "I promise everything will be fine. Be safe. Keep our baby safe."

"Keep him safe, Riza," Georgie parroted, sobbing.

Roy smiled at the same time she felt a sudden tightness loop around her finger. And then he leaned in and whispered in her ear, a soft ballad that consoled the tremble in her bones and the desert in her lungs, "_Keep him safe for us..._"

In that moment, her body was weightless, afloat amongst the blinding white of thick fog. Everything was white. _White, white, white._ A dream entered then, visiting with compassion, and Riza found herself cradling her baby, a smile curled out of joy and relief, easing the ropes of knotted limbs. It was a boy—a son—and she chuckled at her accuracy.

But the vision was evanescent, as brief as her smile and the healthy glow of her newborn. His pink face disappeared first, and then his closed eyes and crying mouth, and lastly his dark tufts of hair. Her arms were no longer rocking her baby, empty, rattling her breaths. Then a paleness gave way to black, the dream ending too soon.

And she woke with a start.

It took her eyes a while to adjust before Riza detected the outline of a bed. A continuous beeping sound clashed against her coming-to hearing. Slowly, she turned her head and steadily contoured a woman in a dark blue scrub, a clipboard in her arm.

"Welcome back, miss" the woman greeted. "How are you feeling?"

Her forefinger clambered to her throbbing temple, but Riza ignored the torment and tried to sit up. However, the woman gingerly lowered her back down into the mattress.

"Stay still. I'll tilt it up for you," she instructed. She messed with the square box at the upper corner of her bed, and the entire thing came to an incline with her body sprawled across it.

"Where… am I...?" Riza moaned, but the abrupt resurgence of a twinge jolted her awake. Her hands flew to her stomach, blanketing it like a shield. "Is- is my baby okay?" she cried, pleading for the truth.

The woman offered her a kind smile. "Your baby is fine, ma'am. Healthy and kicking."

"And- and Roy? I mean, is my fiancé… here…?"

The woman pouted her plump lips. "Well, I don't know about your fiancé. You were by yourself when we found you four days ago. You were bleeding on the hospital lawn," she proclaimed, and continued with her account when Riza stared at her hungrily, wanting more, needing to hear what had happened. "We had to get you out of your beautiful wedding dress. It was soiled... but we stored it inside the closet here-" she patted the wooden cabinet in the wall, "though we couldn't find your shoes. The good news is, you seem to be recovering well. You asking me this many questions proved my point."

But as the woman chronicled her piece, Riza roamed the room, seeing beige walls and glossy cabinets and too-clean ceiling tiles. Her breath turned shallow. Something was wrong. Immediately, she made another circle around the room, studying every item and the incongruous design. Her eyes glazed over a murky corner and caught a glimpse of a long, metal arm. It trailed down to a place just above her eye-level, a television set hanging from it.

Her inhalation ceased altogether. "Nurse- wait, you're a nurse… right?"

"Sure am. I was about to get Doctor Knox for you. Can I get you anything else before I leave?"

"What... day is today? What year?" Riza wheezed. Her pulse quickened when she extended a hand to grip the siderail. The ring her grandfather had given her on his deathbed sat mute and offensive above her glinting engagement ring.

"Oh, you poor thing. You must have hit your head pretty hard when you took that nasty shot," the nurse said, her hand over her heart. "Today is Saturday, July 22nd, and the year is 2000. I'm going to get the doctor for you now."

The nurse faded into the hallway outside, and Riza was left with thundering emotions, horrified by the news. She was back, and she had no inkling how the mystical ring had wrapped itself around her finger like the constricting coil of a snake.

In her attempt to return, she steadied the tremors in her extremities and yanked the band out.

She slipped it back into her finger.

Nothing.

She tried again, ignoring the outcry of her bandaged chest. This time she removed both rings—the cursed heirloom and Roy's mother's ring—and only slid the one back on, the one that had transported her into the past.

Nothing.

Riza sought her right hand and dropped both jewelry onto her ring finger. Still nothing. Her middle finger, her pinkie, a daunting task with her uncontrollable shake above breathless lungs. Nothing. And then she chanted the phrase scrawled along the interior of the band, mentally at first and then loudly. When all remained the same, the darkness of the hospital persisting, the buzzing of monitors nearby unfaltering, she pulled in her knees until they touched her rounded belly, sensing the building agony of never seeing Maes and Gracia again…

Her tiny grandfather was gone, and the second time hadn't muffled the grief any more than it had the first time. Roy Mustang was gone too, evaporated with the passing years without a trace of his name in history, the doctor forgotten, the man existing only in the quiet of her mind.

Again and again, she attempted every possible combination, intoned every utterance to the words she hoped would take her back to the ones loved and lost.

Yet, her endeavor was fruitless.

In the desperation, Riza began to whimper, shaping it into thick tears and an inconsolable bawl, blaming the fickle flow of time, condemning the precarious magic that held it together.

Roy was gone, and she would never find him again.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading! Have a good day.


	22. The Present

**Chapter 22: The Present**

**New York City, September 23, 2000**

Adrian Candido was Rebecca Catalina's son.

He was five years old with dimpled cheeks and a cute, button nose, a set of large eyes as inquisitive as his mother's. His adoptive parents were an older couple who emigrated from Puglia in the 1890's. They did not bear any children of their own, though they had visited the center of unwed mothers in Chicago at the urging of their friends and were instantly smitten by charming, little Adrian.

Flyers for missing children were abundant in 1925. They were posted on utility poles, strewn about the streets like unraked leaves at the start of autumn, rarely reported to authorities. Babies, toddlers, teens. Some as young as several months old and few older than Edward had been. Most were like Adrian, naive and curious, unable to distinguish between malice and kindness.

Adrian was declared missing in the month of January, and his worry-stricken parents were desperate enough to contact the local Chicago cops as soon as they were able. But without any leads other than the playground in which they had last seen him, a pair of khaki knickers and a matching suit coat he had worn, no news had turned up. Six months later, no media had announced his return, no traces of a reunion with his disconsolate family as far as Riza could see.

It wasn't clear how Frankie Yale or the Sicilian had known he had been Rebecca's; the adoption center had caught fire and burned down not long after Adrian was adopted. But as far as intents went, Riza understood a few things.

She understood why her friend had done what she'd done. Mothers would go to any length to keep their children safe, even at the expense of broken hearts and precious lives. Even now, as the moment grew distant, Riza recognized the despair in her supplication, in her apologies… in the way Rebecca seemed to be constantly at war, wanting to tell the truth but couldn't, needing to do what was right only to be reminded of a child who would die at the first sign of defiance.

Riza understood that. Truly.

With a weary sigh, Riza closed the binder in front of her and tossed it into a nearby open box labeled "Research," waddling into the cramped living room she would soon leave behind. Three weeks stay at the hospital had recovered her mobility, but she was still aching and sore, feeling like she'd aged twenty years since she returned over two months ago. Climbing the fire stairs when her building elevator broke down had been a real challenge, and with the demands of pregnancy, the sensation only exacerbated.

"Riza, do you want to put these in the 'Research' box too, or do you want them in 'Personal'?" Sheska asked, raising her voice as though Riza hadn't heard.

Standing in front of the curio cabinet, Sheska rifled through an unruly pile of old letters. Her assistant from the university, a mousy brunette with an eager set of hazel eyes, had offered to help with her move. The process had been daunting to say the least, more so with her constantly taut shoulders and pinched lower back, making her feel as though Atlas had imparted his responsibility just so Riza could understand the need and appreciate the presence of another.

Several of the letters spilled to the floor. There were maybe one hundred, perhaps two hundred in total. Riza hadn't really kept count.

Soon, Sheska looked up and saw the professor approaching. "Oh, you're here. Do you want these in the 'Personal' box? I'm not really sure what these are."

Riza knew what they were; she had brought them to her apartment the day after the reading of Georgie's will. "On top of the house, there were these letters. Your grandfather collected them for years and handed them to me for safekeeping. And as his sole beneficiary, they are now yours," his estate attorney had relayed.

Everytime she ventured to the top shelf where they were kept, she would avoid the folded edges that called to her, pretend they were nothing but a mess that needed cleaning. But they were there, brimming and present, a woeful reminder of the life she had unwillingly left behind. In time, Riza had memorized the deliberate strokes that spelled out the familiar appellation and address, though she took the one proffered to her by Sheska and studied it anew.

_**Doc.**_

_**19 St. Marks Pl**_

_**New York, NY 10003**_

All of them said the same. There was no return address, nothing else to clue where they had come from other than the postmarked stamps from various cities that began as early as 1931 and ended in 1987, most already spotting yellow with the passing time. There was enough to indicate they were Roy's, and she hadn't dared open any of it.

"Can we... create a new box for this?" Riza said, suddenly feeling unsure.

And as bequeathed to her on George Grumman's will, Roy's childhood home on St. Marks Place was now hers. It was the recipient of all the strange letters addressed to _Doc_. How her grandfather wound up inheriting the building, Riza could only guess. First refusal by Edward and Alphonse? An act of kindness towards his young protégé?

Or perhaps it was the doctor's way of watching over her now that a century of separation had intervened and endured.

The absence of Roy's name in academic papers only deepened the gaping hole in her chest. Keeping busy was all Riza could do against the knell of the rolling hour. Gracia's attempt to expel her own grief was warranted now that she was trying to do the same. In nine days Roy Mustang would have been 102 years old, and that realization only submerged her further in grief, simmering a stinging heat behind her eyes, making her tearful and breathless. Only a few lucky souls lived to be that old.

"Sure thing," Sheska replied, already wading through a maze of moving boxes and into the storage closet for another. A series of chuckles echoed inside the narrow space, tilting Riza's head in wonder.

"Are we out of boxes?" Riza asked curiously, pulling a dining chair out when her stiff spine tugged against the joints in her neck.

Sheska took to the floor again and began to fold the cut-out cardboard into shape. Her smile widened, at herself rather than at the inquiring professor, and she began to shake her head, as if trying to rid her musings. "No, Riza. We have enough for the rest of your stuff."

"You were laughing. I thought maybe we ran out of boxes."

"No. I was just thinking…" Sheska stopped abruptly.

Riza pressed on, staring at her when her assistant looked up. "Yes? You were thinking, what?" It was difficult to ignore a pregnant woman, and Riza knew this perfectly well. Her colleagues had been kind and accommodating since she returned, though shock and surprise were just as common in their felicitations. No one thought serious, hardworking Riza ever had time for a man in her life.

"Well, I didn't realize you've been pregnant the entire time. Even before you took time off to take care of your grandfather," she remarked sheepishly. "That means you were expecting around the start of Spring term when I showed you the Hughes articles. If I had known, I wouldn't have kept you up so late all those nights..."

Instantly, Riza dismissed her with a wave. Sheska wouldn't have known. She herself didn't know she was going to come back with a child on the way. "Don't worry about it."

"I also didn't know you're engaged!" the brunette exclaimed then, her enthusiasm gushing. "Your rings are beautiful."

"Yes," Riza murmured, agreeing, because she didn't know what else to say.

Gently, Sheska set the box she had assembled on her lap. "How do you want to label this one?"

She glanced at the letters again and felt the sharp intake of breath, scraping the bones beneath her breasts. Perhaps Riza would find the courage to read them once she moved to her new home.

"Let's call this one 'Doc.'"

Sheska left shortly after lunch, promising to return before evening to help her pack the remainder of her things. With the Fall term beginning in two weeks, Riza dismissed her and advised some fun. They were making fine progress, and the young woman deserved whatever remained of her Saturday.

On her swollen feet, Riza traipsed through the cramped hallway into her sunlit bedroom. Her grandfather's last letter lay open atop her bedside table. In it, Georgie narrated the tale of the goddess Clíodhna who was swept to sea, lulled to sleep inside a curragh by a treacherous minstrel on her way to rejoin her mortal lover. It was a story Riza never heard, but one she construed as consolation about her transient relationship with the doctor, that, while love persisted, all lives would move on. Eventually.

The entire letter was a short, parting message. At the bottom, her grandfather had signed his childhood nickname, followed by an inconspicuous postscript underneath: _Doc told me everything_.

Georgie knew, and for Riza, it was a kind of consolation in itself.

Exhaustion billowed around her as she lay down, making her aware of the weight in her stomach, dulling the noontide that streamed through the open window. In an attempt to rest, Riza clutched an arm at her breast and ventured down, a tender caress for her fluttering child, and closed her eyes with a quiet exhale.

* * *

It was five minutes past four in the afternoon, but New York darkened and cooled much earlier in the day once summer had departed. St. John's Cemetery, however, continued to enjoy the long stretch of green lawn as though the new season hadn't struck at all. Trimmed grass complemented blue skies, dotted by colossal oak trees that separated one large family plot to the next.

After a fitful nap that resulted in a crick in her neck, Riza had drunk a cup of ginger tea, grabbed her cardigan, and chased herself out of the cluttered house. The urgency to see her grandfather was impulsive, as if her body had known precisely what she sought: some peace amidst the restlessness.

George Grumman's final resting place was three mausoleums down from the Hugheses. His grave nestled beside her grandmother's—a woman Riza only met several times before she passed, his headmarker grey and stony and cold, unlike the man her grandfather had been during his lifetime.

Nine months with young Georgie equated to two missing days in the present. Riza had no idea how to even begin theorizing it, how to make sense of the math that led to nothing but headaches. Time seemed too much like a wayward son, searching for his own imprint in life, returning whenever he deemed fit without regards for others.

Kneeling took effort, but Riza did just that and placed the bouquet of white-purple anemone atop his grave. Georgie once told her the flower meant protection, sacrifice, and anticipation. Her grandfather had taken her in and protected her; he had sacrificed a long-established career so she could pursue hers; and he had spent decades anticipating the granddaughter who had visited him as a child, raising her, seeing her become the woman from his memory, eager to meet the baby she bore only to have death take him away before he could.

And each visit made her heart ache, quivering her cracked lips and bloated hands at the thought that Georgie would never meet the great grandson he so accurately predicted.

When Riza rose to a stand, heaving for a breath, an older woman was beside her, hovering a few feet away as if seeking permission before she could approach. Her all-white hair was glimmering like snow, coiled in a low bun, but her posture was stick-straight, supporting a tall, slender body and a sincere smile.

"Hello," the woman greeted pleasantly, a steady voice surging against the swirling gale. "You must be Georgie's granddaughter, Riza."

Riza blinked. She didn't think she had met her before. And the woman had referred to her grandfather as Georgie. Were they old friends?

"Yes. Do I know you?" she asked, extending a hand, which the woman took with a grip that belied her golden year.

Another woman—younger this time—jogged towards them with a worried look, a thick coat hanging from her forearm. Swiftly, she draped it over the older woman, chastising, "Mrs. O'Mara, you are supposed to be wearing your coat. It's cold and windy. Remember what your doctor said."

"Yes, yes, Danny, I know. I'll live."

"I'm just worried about you. That's all," the woman named Danny said. When she looked up and found Riza, her eyes grew large. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt." Briskly, she patted Mrs. O'Mara on her shoulders and pointed to a bench underneath the nearest oak tree. "I will wait over there."

Once Danny had gone, Mrs. O'Mara turned to her with an apologetic frown. "I'm sorry about your grandfather. He was such a wonderful man. We would have met at the funeral, but I was recovering from a severe bout of asthma and couldn't make it. I've visited his grave plenty of times since."

"I hope you're feeling better now, Mrs. O'Mara." Riza smiled affably. "And I believe Mister O'Mara was one of my grandfather's chess buddies," she added, recalling the sketch of a lean, towering man she met twice or thrice. He was in his late seventies with a side-parted do and a chevron mustache.

"Yes, that's right. Georgie was in _dire need_ of an opponent who could actually beat him," Mrs. O'Mara went on, a mild laughter below her dazzling, emerald eyes. "I convinced him that my husband's chess skills—fiancé, at the time—would make for a damn good match."

Absentmindedly, Riza turned the engagement ring on her finger. A web of tangled relationships surfaced to the forefront of her mind. "Oh... I thought you met my grandfather through your husband?"

"Oh no, my dear. Georgie met my husband through me. We've been friends ever since we were young. I suppose I can say I knew him as early as the moment I was born, though he was already ten or eleven years old then. We lost touch for a bit when he moved to Chicago for school."

"I didn't realize you've known him for that long. I don't think he ever mentioned you..."

But Mrs. O'Mara wasn't deterred in the slightest. "He insisted on calling me Lici, and he only did it because my mother said that was what my father would have called me. I told your grandfather I'd outgrown that nickname a long time ago, but he wouldn't budge," the older woman elucidated, blowing a great sigh to emphasize Georgie's mischief.

Recognizing the name, Riza chuckled. "Ah, yes, my grandfather mentioned 'Lici' many times. He wasn't the type that would back down so easily, so I suppose you're stuck with the name."

"Indeed. He was as stubborn as a mule," Mrs. O'Mara concurred, chortling. "And it would have been nice to have met you sooner, Riza. Georgie talked about you all the time."

"It's completely my fault, Mrs. O'Mara. We would have met sooner if I hadn't been so preoccupied with… work," Riza muttered, her volume dropping a range as embarrassment began to creep in. Her work had reigned over her life, and free time meant more reading and research rather than spending time getting to know her grandfather's old friends.

Mrs. O'Mara nodded. "I understand. And please, call me Lici. After all, our families go way back."

Confused, Riza shielded her eyes from the sun and narrowed her gaze, as though it would recall a faint, forgotten memory. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I know the O'Mara family all that well…?"

Lici's smile was kind when she reached out and clasped Riza's hands, squeezing tenderly. "My dear, my married name is Elicia O'Mara, but you may know me better as Elicia Hughes. I'm Maes and Gracia's daughter, and our families have been friends for a very long time."


End file.
